


love progressions

by andnowforyaya



Category: NINE PERCENT (Band), 偶像练习生 | Idol Producer (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Angst and Feels, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Falling In Love, M/M, Reconciliation, Rough Oral Sex, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-06-11 15:29:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 28,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15318522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andnowforyaya/pseuds/andnowforyaya
Summary: Xukun leaves the band, and things start to fall apart.





	1. ziyi

**Author's Note:**

> for those interested, i listen to music for mood inspiration usually, and i made some playlists for the couples~ they're here:
> 
> [BiTing](https://open.spotify.com/user/5ercu0gzapff59pi32z8243ji/playlist/57PNtocZCpJ6iaEpM1b2Ro); [Zhangjun](https://open.spotify.com/user/5ercu0gzapff59pi32z8243ji/playlist/64lgF5PKUxM5EpysOAWtYL); [Zikun](https://open.spotify.com/user/5ercu0gzapff59pi32z8243ji/playlist/3dpRr0ELKYDWKx8effhMN4)

The music will not come. Ziyi sits in front of his keyboard and rests his fingers atop the keys. White, black, white, black, white, white, black. He plays a scale, and halfway through it turns minor, solemn. The chords progress similarly, shifting as he breathes. This is not what he intended, but he's not sure what he intended to begin with. He looks at the notes he's managed to scribble onto the pages balanced against the stand at the back of the keyboard, plays what he's written, all six bars, and hates it. It sounds awful, dead, with all the character and charisma of a rock. Frustrated, he takes up the pages and crumples them up in his fist, chucking the wadded ball of paper to the side in the direction of the trash bin, not caring that he misses.

A few deep breaths. He needs to center himself, to think of the feeling he wants to convey in this song. But it's hard to think of anything at all when all he's been able to feel these past few weeks is a keen emptiness in his chest where his heart should be.

Just when he's about to get up to find more paper, his phone rings beside him on the bench. He looks. Zhu Zhengting's face beams up at him, the smile he's wearing in the picture almost as bright as his pearly white teeth. He slides his thumb across the screen to answer, and puts it on speaker.

"Yo," he greets.

"Ziyi," Zhengting says. His voice is flat. He sounds tired. Ziyi can hear the sounds of loud music conversation in the background.

"What's wrong?"

"I need your help. It's Yanjun."

"Again?"

"Yeah," Zhengting says with a sigh. "He won't listen to me. But he listens to you."

"Barely," Ziyi responds, rubbing his hands over his face.

"Please," Zhengting begs lightly, even though he must know Ziyi is already getting ready to leave his apartment, "I promised Wenjun no shenanigans tonight. It's the first night in months that we have together, and--"

"Yeah, yeah," Ziyi interrupts before Zhengting can get tearful over the phone. "I'm on my way, okay? Just give me, like, fifteen minutes. The usual club?"

"Yeah," Zhengting says. "Thanks, bro."

Ziyi smirks as he finds his jacket that he'd draped over the back of his sofa in the living room earlier today. He shrugs it on, calling out a little louder so that his voice will carry across the room. "It sounds weird when you say it."

"Shut up." Zhengting hangs up.

.

Ziyi drives to the club, which is located in a discrete building with a concrete exterior, a single flashing neon sign right above the doorway marking its entrance. At this time of night, the line to get in is already wrapped around the block. His car is an unassuming black sedan that he bought after the relative, short-lived success of his band's first major album release. Their second album has been on hold for months, and already their band name has mostly faded into the back of the public's conscience. Ziyi kind of prefers it that way. He's never liked the spotlight and the attention it brings, preferring to play the hand that supports. He was surprised when a few singles from their first album made it into the charts for a couple of weeks.

After he parks by the curb, he reaches into the backseat to find a big hoodie he can bring into the club, and a cap that he can put on. The club's bouncers know him by now, so they won't give him any trouble getting in. He just hopes he can sneak in and out without garnering any unnecessary attention -- especially media attention.

"Here we go," he whispers to himself before climbing out, making sure the bill of the cap is a little low over his eyes. The walk is short, and Ziyi heads right up to the front of the line when he gets there, flashing his eyes at the bouncer. The bouncer, dressed in an understated black suit and shirt, opens up the velvet rope and lets him in with a subtle nod.

This is familiar territory. Ziyi heads down the stairs immediately by the club's entrance and enters a den filled with flashing lights, music loud enough to make your head and heart and blood throb with the beat, and the stench of alcohol and sweat. He carries his extra hoodie in his arm, keeping an eye out for his friends. As he nears the bar, he spots them.

Or rather, his eye catches the movement of someone with midnight blue hair falling out of their seat to the ground and he immediately assumes it was Yanjun.

He pushes through the crush of bodies on the dance floor and the people at the bar clamoring for drinks, and manages to reach the spot by the bar on the floor where he sees that Zhengting is trying to get Yanjun to put his arm over his shoulder so he can heave him up, but Yanjun is not cooperating. The result is just a flailing mess of limbs and a petulant, drunk pout on Yanjun's face.

"Jesus," Ziyi mumbles to himself. Then, louder: "Yanjun, get up."

"Get off," Yanjun says, swatting at Zhengting's arms and slurring his words. "You have, like, ten hands!"

"I have two hands just like you, thank you very much," Zhengting says. "Ziyi is here to help you home."

“Ziyi is here to police my fun!” Yanjun shouts from the floor, trying to sit up and falling back instead, knocking his head against the leg of a bar stool. “Ouch.”

“You’re a disaster,” Zhengting comments.

“I’m _your_ disaster,” Yanjun replies smoothly. Zhengting rolls his eyes and looks at Ziyi as though to say, _d_ _o you see what I have to deal with?_

Ziyi stoops down and hooks Yanjun under his arms with a hands, hauling him upright and leaning him against his own chest when it looks like he’s a little too unsteady on his own feet. “Put this on.” He takes the hoodie and pulls it over Yanjun’s head, ignoring Yanjun’s muffled protests behind the cloth. “If Zhang Yixing hears you're involved in a scandal in the morning, he’ll put you under 24-hour surveillance for at least two months.”

Yanjun has enough wits about him to gets his arms through the armholes of the hoodie, and pulls it down the rest of the way. “Ha! Yixing likes me,” he says, referring to their manager. “He wouldn’t put me under sur--surveys--sure -- whatever.”

“Believe what you want to, bro,” Ziyi says. He puts the hood up on Yanjun’s head, covering up his blue hair as Yanjun drops his face against Ziyi’s shoulder, mumbling something about sheep and going limp within a few seconds. Ziyi grunts as he bears the full weight of him, holding him up with his arms around his waist. He gives him a little shake. “Yanjun, let’s go.”

 _Thank you,_ Zhengting mouths at him from behind Yanjun.

This time it is Ziyi who rolls his eyes and they half-carry, half-drag Yanjun with them out of the club and into the backseat of Ziyi’s car.

.

A short drive and very awkward ride in the elevator later (it probably isn’t every day that a woman gets on the elevator at the lobby level to find one grown man carrying another grown man on his back), Yanjun is safely laid out on Ziyi’s white couch, shoes and socks off because Ziyi is a good friend like that, trash bin situated next to him in case he needs it in the middle of the night.

Like this, Ziyi can’t help but feel fondness for the other man despite the trouble he sometimes brings. Yanjun looks younger when he’s sleeping. The hard, chiseled cheekbones and strong eyebrows that, as a default make Yanjun look like he’s got an issue with whatever and whoever he’s looking at during waking hours, soften in sleep.

He goes to the kitchen, fills up a glass of water, and brings it to the living room, setting it down on his coffee table. Then he goes to his medicine cabinet in the bathroom and finds a bottle of painkillers, shaking two out into his palm and bringing those to the coffee table too.

He crouches down into a squat by the couch, so he’s almost face-to-face with the other man. “Yanjun,” he whispers.

Yanjun’s eyes move behind his eyelids. “What?” Yanjun whispered back, sounding a bit pissed.

“There’s water and painkillers on the table. You’re gonna have a bad hangover in the morning.”

“I know,” Yanjun groans.

“You should really, ah, maybe not drink so much.”

Yanjun doesn’t say anything, his breathing evening out, and Ziyi thinks that maybe he’s drifted off to sleep again. His knees creaking, Ziyi rises, and goes to turn off the light in the living room. When his hand is on the switch, he hears Yanjun’s voice from the couch.

“Have you talked to Kunkun lately?”

The air freezes in his lungs, and Ziyi lets it out slowly, forcing himself to breathe normally. “No,” he says quietly.

“I miss him,” Yanjun says.

Ziyi is still as the electricity hums under his fingertips. He says, “Good night, Yanjun,” and turns off the light.

.


	2. yanjun

The world is still spinning when Yanjun awakens to light piercing in through Ziyi’s floor-to-ceiling windows and straight into his eyes. There is water running somewhere, presumably from the faucet in the kitchen. It makes Yanjun realize he really needs to use the facilities. Groaning, he rises unsteadily and manages to get to his feet, tripping over himself and trying not to run into any furniture or walls on the way to the bathroom. 

A near success. He accidentally knocks Ziyi’s container of handsoap from the sink counter into the toilet bowl. With a grimace, he fishes it out of the bowl and puts it back on the counter.

On second thought, he takes it and throws it into the bin. Ziyi’s a clean freak so he won’t like the idea of using soap that’s been defiled like that. Not that Yanjun has plans on telling him what happened. 

He goes, flushes, zips up, and washes his hands with the body soap he finds on one of the little shelves in the corner of the shower stall. Takes a good look at himself in the mirror and has to blink a few times to focus, his vision blurry. The little bit of eyeliner he’d been wearing last night has smudged under his eyes. His lips are cracked and the inside of his mouth feels like cotton. His hair is starting to take on a piecey, stringy look that’s veered too far from stylish and right into unkempt. “Shit,” he says to himself, feeling his stomach roil, acid churning. When was the last time he ate?  

“Yanjun.” 

Yanjun looks away from his reflection in the mirror. Ziyi is standing there with a clean grey t-shirt in his hands, his expression reserved. Ziyi’s been looking like that for a few weeks now, like a boring, unreadable wall. Yanjun kind of hates it.

“You look like shit,” Ziyi states. “You can shower if you want.”

Yanjun looks back towards the shower, then to Ziyi again. “You’ve, uh, got no handsoap,” he says.

Ziyi raises one eyebrow in a silent question, handing the shirt over to Yanjun. “All right,” he says amiably. “There should be an extra bottle under the sink. Wash up, Yanjun. You stink.”

.

The shower helps to clear Yanjun’s head, like the alcohol left in his bloodstream is evaporating into the steam condensing on the tiled walls and mirrors. He lets himself go deliciously blank and just feel the water droplets hitting his skin in a constant stream. He takes his time lathering soap over his body and rinsing it off, the repetitive motion so soothing he’s not quite sure how many times he does it. 

The sudden knock at the door startles him, his heels slipping a little against the smooth surface of the stall, and he has to throw his hands out to catch himself against the walls so he doesn’t fall.

“Yanjun, you haven’t died in there have you?”

“No,” he manages to call out. “But you did nearly just kill me.”

“Ha ha,” Ziyi laughs without humor outside of the bathroom. “There’s toast and coffee when you come out. Cold now, but that can’t be helped.”

_ Yes, that really makes me want to finish my hot, relaxing shower,  _ Yanjun thinks, grumbling to himself. But now that Ziyi has interrupted his serenity, he can’t seem to find it again, and with some reluctance, he finishes rinsing off, shuts off the water and opens the curtain, shivering in the resulting vacuum of cool air that rushes in. 

He dries off with the towel and hangs it up to dry before putting on the shirt Ziyi gave him and pulling on his own boxers. After a second of consideration, he leaves his jeans on the floor. He’ll get them later.

Ziyi is waiting for him in his living room when he emerges, sipping on coffee and reading a book on his couch with a pen in hand, his legs crossed. He’s wearing a white t-shirt and loose black pajama bottoms and has his hair tucked behind his ear on one side. Next to the coaster that Ziyi is using for his mug of coffee is another coaster, and on top of that is another mug. Yanjun’s. 

“Food’s in the kitchen,” Ziyi says.

Yanjun goes. His stomach is the kind of empty that is past making him feel sick. He just feels tight, like his skin is pulled too taut, and like he could use a drink. He opens the fridge out of habit, investigating the shelves inside. “Got anything to drink?” he calls back behind his shoulder.

“It’s 11 in the morning,” Ziyi responds.

“Just a little something for the coffee,” Yanjun says.

“Yeah,” Ziyi says. “There’s milk in the fridge.”

Yanjun huffs, pouts, and closes the fridge door before setting his sights on the bottom cabinets in the kitchen, opening and closing a few of them to see what’s under the counters.

“Yanjun,” Ziyi says sharply, making the older boy stiffen in his crouch. “Stop looking. Just drink your damn coffee and eat your damn toast.”

Sulking, Yanjun rises and fixes himself a plate of bland, burnt-looking toast and shuffles over to the couch in the living room, plopping down next to Ziyi and immediately regretting it because the motion jiggles his brain around in his head too much and pain lances through his temples. Instead of eating or drinking, he puts his head in his hands and then between his knees, breathing and trying to make the world stop spinning. He feels Ziyi’s hand on his back, at first patting him awkwardly and then rubbing little circles between his shoulder blades.

“You need to eat something,” Ziyi says.

“I feel too shitty,” Yanjun mumbles, shaking his head.

“You’re hungover. Food will help.”

“The toast is burnt,” Yanjun whines. 

“Just eat it.”

With a growl, Yanjun sits up and grabs the toast from the plate, stuffing it into his mouth and chewing obnoxiously. “Fine,” he says, mouth full. “Happy?”

Ziyi sits back, turning the book over on his lap so that it remains opens where he’d been reading and tucking his pen behind his ear. “I’d be happy if I didn’t have to keep picking you up from clubs and bars and bringing you into my home.”

“What, you don’t like me as your guest?”

“You use up all my hot water and insult my food,” Ziyi says, stone-faced, and Yanjun would think he was really hurting from Yanjun using up his resources if he didn’t see Ziyi’s lip twitch at the corners, trying to keep a smirk off his face.

“Liar,” Yanjun says, pointing at him with a finger-gun. “You love me.”

“And thus is my weakness,” Ziyi says with a sigh.

Yanjun finishes the piece of toast, feeling it settle in his belly. It is heavy and foreign and dry. He takes a huge swig of coffee, letting the bitter fluid wash down his throat. But it isn’t quite quenching his thirst. Ziyi meets his eyes over the rim of the mug, and seems to know where his mind is, because he says, “Sorry I don’t have any whiskey to wash it down with.”

Yanjun swallows uneasily. “The coffee’s fine.” He finishes the drink quickly, not able to savor its taste, and puts the mug back down onto the coaster. 

Ziyi seems to consider him, his eyes scanning him and looking through him. Yanjun tries to keep the food and coffee down as the sudden thought of being seen makes him want to heave. And then Ziyi reaches for his hand, and takes his pen from behind his ear. He draws a little star on Yanjun’s skin, in the space between his thumb and forefinger, and begins to fill the shape in with black ink. “Hey!” Yanjun says, bewildered and trying to pull his hand back. Ziyi holds him fast. “What’s this?”

“A little star for going one meal without alcohol,” Ziyi comments, finishing up his tiny art and tucking his pen back behind his ear. 

Yanjun yanks his hand back again, feeling his cheeks heat. Ziyi lets go this time, and Yanjun cradles his hand against his chest. He knows he’s flushed, and he hates it. “I don’t have a drinking problem,” he hisses.

Ziyi raises his eyebrow again, the silent question. He says, “Yeah? Prove it.”

.

Yanjun goes home. It is early afternoon by the time he arrives at his apartment, the light a mellow, warm gold as it comes through his windows and reflects off his floors. His place isn’t as big as Ziyi’s, nor as fancy, nor decorated with sleek, modern furniture like Ziyi's. But it’s cozy, a little worn in, one corner of the living room overrun by various kinds of drums from all over the world, guitars hung up on racks on the walls, his keyboard on the floor by the couch. 

He steps out of his shoes by the door and shuffles into his living room. When the fronts of his knees hit his couch he simply falls into the cushions, pulling at the throw blanket that’s strewn across one end of the couch and bringing it over his legs and up to his chest. He burrows into the warmth.

He’s bored and listless as he rolls onto his side and turns on the television. The screen opens to reveal a documentary he’d been watching days ago about the history and evolution of hip hop music, and when he presses play, the video resumes from where he’d left off. Problem is, he can’t remember what the documentary had already covered. He listens with half a ear and watches without really seeing, thoughts in the back of his mind buzzing.

They are the usual thoughts: that he’s lazy and talentless, that he doesn’t work hard enough, that his friends are growing tired of him. Sometimes he can convince himself they are just thoughts, not to be minded. Sometimes he can convince himself they are true. After all, Xukun apparently already grew tired of him. 

Yanjun’s hand reaches for the little drawer underneath his coffee table and pulls it open, and he rummages around inside until his fingers knock against the familiar shape of a small plastic bottle. He takes it out and holds it up to his face for examination. Just seeing the amber liquid in the bottle makes the thoughts in his mind buzz a little less loudly, like they are trying to reach him underwater. He watches the documentary through the plastic, the faces of the men and women on screen distorted. Too long, too wide. 

Then he notices the little black star Ziyi had drawn onto his hand, and his stomach clenches something awful.

“Shit,” he mutters, throwing the bottle back into the drawer and slamming it closed. He sits up. He can’t be here, alone in his apartment. The walls suddenly feel like they’re closing in on him, and the warm afternoon sun like it’s blazing and scorching against his skin. He turns off the television without bothering to pause the documentary and stands, striding to the door.

He’ll go for a walk to clear his head. And when he comes back, everything will be fine.

.

It is 5PM and Yanjun is in a bar not far from where he lives. He walked to the park, to the library, to the school in his neighborhood, in circles until sweat was dripping down the back of his neck and the column of his throat. But still he wound up here, in this bar, at this counter, staring forlornly at the club soda in front of him that he asked for when he sat down.

The bartender has even put a maraschino cherry in the club soda to make it look like a cocktail, but it’s fooling no one, least of all Yanjun. Leaning his chin into his palm on the counter, he swirls the two tiny red straws around in the drink, making the bright red cherry at the bottom of the glass float in circles, and watches the bubbles in the tiny whirlpool he's created. It’s a little hypnotic, in a way. Ziyi’s little black star taunts him from his hand.

“Is it telling you a secret?” someone to Yanjun’s left says.

“Huh?” Yanjun replies with all the intelligence of a starfish, swiveling his head in the direction of the smooth voice. There aren’t many people in the bar this early, so Yanjun is a little surprised that someone has chosen to take a seat so close to him at the counter when so many other seats are empty. Acoustic music plays softly overhead.

The young man sitting two seats down from him is grinning, his cheeks round like little peaches. His dark hair has a slight curl to it and frames his face, reminding Yanjun a little bit of cherubs. He tilts his head cutely at Yanjun’s blank expression, and keeps grinning, eyelids fluttering coquettishly as he leans in a little closer. “Only, you’re staring so intently at it,” he whispers. “What’s it telling you?”

“It’s telling me that I’m a fool,” Yanjun says, leaning in closer too and whispering.

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“Because I’m trying not to drink today,” Yanjun admits to this perfect stranger. He lifts his glass and takes the straws in between his lips, sipping and coyly flashing his eyes at the other man, who slides over one seat so that they are sitting next to each other. The other man is smaller than Yanjun, his chin coming up to Yanjun’s shoulder as they’re sitting.

“You’re trying not to drink, and you come to a bar?” He doesn’t sound so much incredulous as curious, his voice softly rising at the end. “Your logic seems unsound.”

Yanjun says, “I guess it’s a habit.”

The other man’s grin turns into a bright, magnetic smile. “Hey,” he says, holding out his hand in the small space left between them. He can barely extend his elbow, but he makes it work. “I’m You Zhangjing.”

“Lin Yanjun,” Yanjun says, shaking his hand. Zhangjing’s hand is small too, like the rest of him, and warm, and it fits perfectly against Yanjun’s palm.

“Well, Lin Yanjun,” Zhangjing says, eyes glittering, “if you’d like, I can take you somewhere else tonight where you can not-drink. No alcohol. Promise.”

Yanjun hasn’t let go of Zhangjing’s hand yet, his fingers trailing against Zhangjing’s palm, and the other man doesn’t seem to mind this one bit. “How can I trust you?” he asks, narrowing his eyes a little as he feels his lips tug at the corners into a smirk.

Zhangjing shrugs. The light behind his eyes is captivating, and Yanjun is drawn to him like a moth to a flame. “How can you not?”

.


	3. zhengting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi there's some smut. please take note.

“Ziyi says Yanjun left his place already,” Zhengting says aloud to Wenjun, who throws a hand over his own eyes and curls up against Zhengting’s bare chest, tangling his legs with Zhengting’s under the mussed covers.

“It is barely past noon on our day off together before I have to leave for another week and you’re already worrying about something that’s not any of your business.”

“How’s it not my business?” Zhengting holds his phone in front of his face, propping himself up on the pillows with his other hand. He feels Wenjun’s hair prickling against his chest and neck as Wenjun’s arm comes around to circle his waist. “They’re my friends. I care about if Yanjun makes it home or not.” He opens up his messages and sends Yanjun a quick text: _you alive?_

He receives a picture in reply: Yanjun with his face in shadow, the scene of a park behind him. He breathes out a sigh of relief. Yesterday when he’d gotten to the club to find Yanjun already plastered he had thought about Wenjun arriving at the airport, fresh from a photo shoot in Tokyo, waiting for him to pick him up, and he had panicked, calling Ziyi and foisting the problem onto him. Today he feels a bit guilty about it, for thinking of Yanjun as a problem.

But then his boyfriend paws at his chest with his hand. “Put your phone away and pay attention to me,” Wenjun whines.

“You’re barely awake.”

“And whose fault is that? Going so many rounds last night. You can’t get enough of me.” Wenjun’s breathless laugh skitters across Zhengting’s skin like electricity, and he reaches over behind him to put his phone down on his nightstand. When he rolls back, Wenjun is there, and catches his lips in a brief, tender kiss.

“You have the stamina of an old man,” Zhengting whispers against his lips.

“Is that so?” Wenjun kisses him again, more deeply, with teeth. He bites down gently on Zhengting’s bottom lip, drawing out a gasp. His hands creep down, down, down, until his fingers are kneading the soft spot above Zhengting’s sharp hip bones. Zhengting can’t help but roll his hips forward into the touch, swallowing a groan.

Wenjun grins with a self-satisfied smirk that shows off his sharp incisors. He continues kneading Zhengting’s hips, digging his thumbs in while pulling him closer, until they are pressed flush together under the covers. They are both still naked, and Zhengting gasps and throws his head back when he feels skin against skin, the contact like a line of searing heat. Wenjun takes advantage of the exposed column of his throat, pressing his lips against Zhengting’s Adam’s apple and sucking.

“Shit,” Zhengting curses through his teeth, hands coming up to grasp at Wenjun’s hair. He shivers and groans when Wenjun bares his teeth and slides them across his skin, teasing, not yet biting down. His breath is so hot against him. Zhengting squirms. “No visible marks,” he reminds him. He has a performance in a few days, and hates explaining away hickeys and bite marks to over-curious make-up artists and the other dancers backstage.

“You’re no fun,” Wenjun complains. “I let you mark me up all the time.”

“You _like_ it when people ask you about them,” Zhengting manages between gasps as Wenjun works kisses down his throat, over his collarbones, across his chest.

“Hm,” Wenjun hums, lips pressed dangerously close to Zhengting’s nipple. “I suppose I do.” Then Wenjun presses his tongue against the tiny bud of Zhengting’s nipple, and a shock courses through Zhengting so lovely and sharp that his back arches as he moans into the feeling of Wenjun lapping at his sensitive skin. A deep chuckle passes through Wenjun’s lips, his hands coming to hold onto Zhengting’s hips tightly again, holding him down against the bed.

Zhengting can feel himself stirring, feel himself pressing against the inside of Wenjun’s thighs, his skin so soft and smooth there it feels like Zhengting is pushing up against silk.

“Baby,” Wenjun says with a growl in his voice. “Already?”

Zhengting flushes, an embarrassingly needy whine escaping his mouth. He nods, pushing his hips forward, his cock slipping between Wenjun’s thighs. He feels the moment when Wenjun squeezes his legs together to give him more heat, more friction. Wenjun’s skin might be soft, but it’s dry, and the raw drag of the head of Zhengting’s cock across the roughness of it makes Zhengting whimper and shake.

“Let me help you,” Wenjun whispers. Zhengting nods frantically, hips pumping slowly and leisurely, and his boyfriend gives him a sly little smirk as reaches over and across Zhengting — putting his full weight on top of Zhengting’s chest for just a moment — to pick up the tube of lube they’d left on the bedside table last night. He returns to his position by Zhengting’s side still smirking, opening the tube and squeezing a generous portion into his palm before closing the container and leaving it by his pillow somewhere. And then his hand disappears under the covers to wrap around Zhengting’s dick.

His palm is almost as soft as the skin of the insides of his thighs. Zhengting’s eyelids flutter closed as wet warmth engulfs him, sending a pleasant tingle all up and down his spine. “Wenjun…” his voice trails off as Wenjun’s hand begins to move, rendering him breathless.

Wenjun captures his lips in a soft kiss that gradually intensifies, his tongue swiping across the seam of Zhengting’s lips and then licking into him when Zhengting opens up for him. Zhengting feels himself relax against Wenjun, feels the shift in his chest as he gives himself over to him, as Wenjun works his fist up and down around his dick slowly, the pace making all of Zhengting’s nerve-endings tingle. “Quit...teasing,” Zhengting manages between kisses.

Wenjun only laughs against Zhengting’s open mouth. He pushes their hips together, his hand and their cocks trapped between them, and Zhengting releases a high-pitched whine. “You want to go faster, baby?”

He can feel Wenjun’s thumb pressing against the slit at the head of his cock, smearing the precum gathering there over him. Wenjun squeezes and Zhengting twitches against him, gasping, arms coming up to circle around Wenjun’s shoulders tightly when he twists his fist around him and pumps him faster, more roughly, building up heat and friction quickly. “Like this?”

Zhengting nods again, biting at his bottom lip and squeezing his eyes shut. He can feel his orgasm building, starting with a tingling in his toes. Orgasms with Wenjun have always been a full-body experience for him.

“God,” he hears Wenjun whisper in a broken sort of voice, “I love seeing you like this.”

“More,” Zhengting demands, now fucking into Wenjun’s hand. Wenjun complies, going faster, hooking a leg around Zhengting’s hip so that he can pull him in even tighter. “Ah,” Zhengting gasps. “Yes!” He presses his face against Wenjun’s neck, breathing hot and wet over his skin, as Wenjun’s hand tips him over the edge and he cums with a short cry. Wenjun slows but keeps pumping his hand over his dick, drawing it out until Zhengting is shaking and his chest is heaving with his breaths.

They lay there, curled together, a sticky mess between them, trading breaths. Zhengting loses time in the warmth of Wenjun’s gaze, in the sleepy smiles they have for each other, in the sweet, familiar kisses.

Zhengting’s phone buzzes on the nightstand, the sound grating to their ears and the tranquility that had blanketed them.

“Don’t answer,” Wenjun says, groaning. “It’s probably not important.”

He doesn’t want to look away from Wenjun, but Zhengting can’t help the tug in his chest at the noise of the phone still ringing, wondering who it is. He reaches behind him for his phone and checks the screen. Justin.

“It might be important,” Zhengting whispers, looking at Wenjun a little guiltily. “He never calls.”

“Please put the phone down,” Wenjun says with his brows furrowed, a tiny pucker of a pout to his lips. “We have four hours before I have to get back on a plane and fly out to Madrid, and I want to spend every second with you. Justin has plenty of other friends to call to ask for help choosing a new pair of sneakers but I only have one you.”

Zhengting’s lips quirk. “New sneakers?”

Wenjun shrugs the best he can while horizontal and wrapped around Zhengting in bed. “It seems like a Justin-level type of emergency.”

With only a little reluctance, Zhengting takes one last look at his phone screen and sighs, putting it back on the nightstand. “Fine,” he says. “I’m ignoring my calls because I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Wenjun says, all smirking and self-satisfied, darting forward to kiss Zhengting on the tip of his nose.

.

Five hours later, Zhengting is alone in his apartment again, stripping his sheets on his bed so that he can change them out for fresh, clean ones, when his phone buzzes. He startles, surprised at himself that he hasn’t once thought about his messages since this afternoon with Wenjun. It feels oddly liberating.

Gathering up his sheets into his arms, he dumps them into the hamper in the corner of his room before going over to his nightstand, turning his phone over and checking his messages. He has multiple, the latest one from Wenjun: a selfie of him on the plane wearing a travel pillow around his neck and a cute expression on his face, with the caption ‘missing my pearl already’.

He chuckles at that, sending a message in response about missing him and hoping he has a safe flight, and then he scrolls through his earlier notifications, seeing a missed call from Justin, and a message, which he opens.

His breath catches in his chest when he sees what Justin has sent: _Zhengting-ge, did you see Cai Xukun’s interview?_

.


	4. ziyi

Ziyi plays back the riff he’s written on his laptop, headphones pressed over his ears. He’s lounging on his couch in a long fluffy robe and boxers and trying to figure out what’s missing from the chords. After Yanjun left this morning, Ziyi had gone for a run, come back and showered, and then met Zhang Yixing for coffee.

“How are you and Yanjun doing?” Yixing asked over a cup of iced Americano. They sat outside the coffee shop, both wearing sunglasses, having a quiet conversation while watching the passers-by. Every once in a while, someone looked at Ziyi for a second longer than a passing glance, recognizing that he was a familiar face but likely not being able to pinpoint where they’ve seen him before.

Ziyi played with the straw in his iced coffee and said, “We’re fine. Working on new material.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie. He _was_ working on new material. He just happened to scrap everything new he could come up with because everything was awful. And Yanjun was certainly working on something. Or through something.

Yixing was wearing a smart blazer over a casual tee, and he adjusted his sunglasses before taking them off completely, folding them and fitting them into the pocket of his blazer at his breast. He looked at Ziyi dead-on. “The company wants to hear something good, Ziyi. They’re getting impatient with the second album. You don’t want them to lose faith in you.” Yixing spoke in a direct, uncomplicated way. There was no pity in his tone or expression. It was what it was, and for that, Ziyi was thankful.

“It won’t be much longer,” Ziyi said, trying to keep his tone even. “I’ve got something good. We’ve got something good.”

Yixing’s expression didn’t change. Sometimes, it felt like Yixing could see through everything, every lie and fake smile and useless comments about the weather. He said, “Send it to me by the end of the week, then.”

And Ziyi nodded, hand around the glass of coffee, trying to keep his fingers from shaking.

.

And now Ziyi is here, listening to the same chords over and over again on his couch, thinking about the first album they put out and the surprise success of their single, the expectations the public and their fans have of their second. The sophomore slump doesn’t feel like a myth to him but a real thing, and this puts ice into Ziyi’s veins. He wants badly to succeed — for himself, for Yanjun, for their fans. Maybe even for Xukun.

He yanks the headphones off of his head and puts them on his coffee table, unplugging them from his laptop and replaying the riffs from the laptop speakers. Maybe he just needs to listen to them in a different way. Maybe inspiration will hit if he tries something new. Maybe he’s in a rut because every day has been the same for the past few weeks, months. Wake up, try to write, go for a run, see if Yanjun or others want to play a game of pick-up basketball in the park, try to write again. He keeps himself busy with exercise and reading and watching documentaries about the music industry (at Yanjun’s recommendation) and tries very hard not to think about things too deeply, because if he does, well.

If he does, well, there’s Xukun. Always, like a shadow lurking in his mind. An insistent phantom that keeps popping up when Ziyi least wants him too.

He remembers Xukun in his kitchen in the mornings, trying to brew coffee and never getting it right. He remembers Xukun playing his keyboard wildly and haphazardly and shouting random lyrics against the music and laughing with him and shouting back. He remembers the three of them — himself, Xukun, and Yanjun — working out the kinks of a new song in his living room, Yanjun on the floor strumming his guitar thoughtfully and Ziyi on bass, or drums. And Xukun singing, swaying, and trilling notes with adept, agile fingers on the electronic keyboard.

And he remembers those fingers against his lips. Xukun’s thumb against his bottom lip prying him open. Xukun’s lips against his and his throat, his hands gripping his hips. Xukun kissed Ziyi like Ziyi was water and he’d been wandering the desert for days. And he fucked like he was made for it.

His laptop shifts off his thighs to the cushions of the couch, and Ziyi leaves it there, one of his hands creeping lower and lower over his stomach and then into his boxers. He swallows as he traces his fingernails lightly over himself, remembering how Xukun used to tease him just like this. His fingers would graze over Ziyi’s length as he chuckled at the way Ziyi would groan, at how sensitive he was to Xukun’s touch. And he’d wrap his palm around him, warm and soft, pulling slowly as he left kisses over Ziyi’s chest. Sometimes he’d crawl up Ziyi’s body until he could take them both into one hand and stroke and squeeze, and they’d come together, skin sticky with sweat, a mess between their stomachs. Sometimes he’d turn Ziyi over and use his fingers on him, teasing him open until Ziyi was shaking and begging to be fucked, and he’d oblige with a wicked grin on his beautiful face. Sometimes Ziyi would use his tongue on Xukun until Xukun was crying and when he finally lined himself up and pushed into him in one long, smooth stroke, Xukun would feel perfect around him, all hot velvet silk, sweet and tight.

Ziyi gasps as he spills his release into his own hand. He opens his eyes and looks down, groaning at the sticky mess he’s made over himself. “Fuck,” he mutters, holding his hand over his stomach. Acidic guilt crawls its way up from his gut and into his chest. He rolls over to grab tissues from the box on the coffee table and wipes down his hand, and then his stomach, and then under the fabric of his boxers. He crumples up the tissues and throws them onto the table, letting his arm dangle limp off the side of the couch. The pillow under his head feels like it could smother him. He kind of wishes it would.

Before he can put the pillow over his own face though, his phone on the coffee table buzzes with a message. He reaches over with his clean hand and opens up the notification. It’s from Zhengting.

_ >>I think you should watch this _

A link follows the message. He opens the link.

And immediately turns his phone over, the acidic churning in his gut intensifying at the image on his screen. But turning the image over does nothing to mute the sound, and he hears with clarity a reporter ask, “And have you been in touch with your ex-bandmates?”

Xukun’s voice is sturdy and smooth. Just husky enough to catch your attention. He sounds like the way sitting by a warm fire feels. He says, “Ah, that’s a little — the past few months have been so crazy that I haven’t really talked to anyone outside of my manager and the amazing people helping me with the single. Not even my family.” He laughs softly, the kind of laugh that makes teenagers swoon and scream. The kind of laugh that made Ziyi look over at Xukun next to him in bed and hope that morning would never end so they could stay curled up under the covers and escape responsibilities and commitments forever.

He turns his phone over and props one side against the table, holding it up with his hand so that he can see the screen. There Xukun is, his hair dark and styled back, wearing eyeliner and grey contacts and tiny chains in his ears. He looks fucking fantastic.

The interview is attached to a behind-the-scenes video of Xukun’s recent photo shoot with Elle Magazine, to be released in next month’s edition. With the anticipation of Xukun’s first single, he’s been popping up in small variety show segments, in magazines and ads. But he hasn’t been doing very many interviews. Ziyi wonders if it’s the strategy of his management, or if Xukun requested it.

“It must be strange and exciting setting out on your own,” the reporter continues, sitting off-screen.

Xukun’s face darkens almost imperceptibly, but Ziyi doesn’t miss the way his brows slightly dip as he tries to keep a smile on his face. “It’s an amazing opportunity. I feel really blessed and thankful for everyone supporting me. But I do miss them. Lin Yanjun and Wang Ziyi.”

“What do you miss the most about them?” the reporter asks.

Xukun flushes. He laughs again, and this time it tinges on uncomfortable. “Yanjun’s jokes,” he says, pausing with a little wry grin on his face before continuing, “and Ziyi’s smile. It’s a smile that’s like, that tells you everything is going to be okay. Yeah. I haven’t seen it in a while.” His voice trails off dreamily for moment before he catches himself and straightens his shoulders. “I hope I have an opportunity to connect with them both soon.”

Then there are questions about his single, an upcoming guerila performance he’s excited about, and the craziest thing that’s happened with a fan so far (which Xukun evades answering by saying all of his fans have been exceedingly respectful and kind, and a group of them have even donated to charities under his name in anticipation for the single release). The video ends with a montage of Xukun in different poses for the photo shoot, lights flashing around him.

Ziyi watches the whole thing over again twice more. He obsesses over the little wry grin on Xukun’s face before he says he misses Ziyi’s smile, because what does that mean? Is he being sincere? Is it for show? Does he really miss Ziyi at all?

His heart pounds hard in his chest, and suddenly there is the backbone of a song in his head, beating away and insistent, and Ziyi rushes to stand, runs to the kitchen with his robe flying behind him to wash his hands and shake them dry and then runs back to his living room and throws himself onto the bench in front of his keyboard, turning it on and playing the chords in his head.

There’s still blank paper on the stand, and a pen, so he scribbles down the notes as fast as he can. Keyboard, chords, pen, notes. Keyboard, pen, notes. Over and over, his mind in a frenzy. The song spills out of him the way water crashes through a crack in a dam. Slowly at first and then all at once as the foundations give way.

He sees Xukun at his door after he told Ziyi and Yanjun the news that he’d been offered a solo contract. He sees the way Xukun had already made up his mind before he’d even come to them; it was in the set of his shoulders, the hard line of his jaw. He’d been so angry at Xukun for putting on airs. For coming to them when it was clear he’d intended to leave them from the start. Leave _him_ from the start.

 _You’re being selfish_ , Ziyi had said. _What about us? The band?_

 _This is my dream_ , Xukun had said. _To write, to produce, to create. Please understand._

_We do that! We write songs. Together._

Xukun's eyes were rimmed red, and his tears were unfamiliar to Ziyi, a shock. _You write songs_ , he'd said.  _And then we fuck. And then I sing the songs._

 _Is there some part of that arrangement you’d like to change?_ Ziyi had said in a fit of blind anger, unaccustomed to the feeling. He liked simple, understated things, found luxury in the monochromatic. Anger and confusion and betrayal were spikes of color that did not fit. 

And Xukun had shaken his head and he’d said,  _You’re an idiot_ , and walked out the door.

He hasn’t been back since.

.

Ziyi finishes the song at three in the morning and saves it on his laptop. It is a hard, beat-driven roller with lyrics like _you always had to be right_ and _I miss you even though it’s wrong._ He’ll send it to Yanjun later so that Yanjun can pick through the filler lyrics and make them sound more poetic and less miserably, achingly obvious.

He goes to bed with satisfaction brewing in his belly, and sleeps better than he has been in weeks.

.


	5. yanjun

“Where are we going?”

The sky looks like fire. Yanjun takes his phone out and snaps a picture of the skyline for later, though the saturated colors are too brilliant for a photo to really capture. He is struck by a feeling deeply nostalgic, one of longing. He thinks of late summer romances, the sweetness of them. How everything looks so golden before inevitably, colder seasons come.

Zhangjing takes his wrist when they’re a little farther away from the bar and grins, catching Yanjun’s full attention again. His grip is gentle but sure. “You’ll see,” Zhangjing says mysteriously. “Remember, you said you’d trust me.”

“No,” Yanjun replies, allowing himself to be pulled along in Zhangjing’s wake and mirroring his grin. It can’t be helped, the smile that spreads across his face. Zhangjing just seems to be able to draw it out of him like a magnet. “I never said such a thing. I asked why I _should_ trust you.”

Zhangjing hums and slips his hand down until he can thread their fingers together. Walking side by side, their height difference is starker; Zhangjing’s cheek barely grazes the edge of Yanjun’s shoulder. They are opposites, Zhangjing in a pink t-shirt and light blue jeans, and Yanjun in black with a black cap over his blue hair, like Zhangjing’s long, extended shadow. Zhangjing says, “You should feel honored that I’m taking you to one of my favorite places in the city.”

“I do,” Yanjun says gravely with a nod. Zhangjing giggles and knocks his shoulder into his arm, pushing them both into the pathway of another lady on the wide sidewalk, who shoots them a glare before surpassing them with quick, hurried steps while shaking her head. Zhangjing and Yanjun’s gazes drift to each other and they lock eyes, and when Zhangjing waggles his eyebrows a bit Yanjun bursts out laughing, pressed close to the shorter boy’s side.

“She was in such a hurry,” Zhangjing says, smile beaming. “Hey! Don’t be rude. You walked into her, you know.”

“You pushed me!” Yanjun retorts.

“You have a nice smile,” Zhangjing says. He looks directly at Yanjun and then to the corner of Yanjun’s lips. “And you have cute dimples when you laugh.”

The shock of the sudden compliment makes Yanjun’s laughter bubble out of him more slowly. He feels himself flush and smile even wider in response, a giddy, light-as-air feeling in his chest. A little breathless, he says, “You have a nice smile, too. It was the first thing I noticed about you.”

Zhangjing squeals. It’s piercing and unexpected, just like the sudden flurry of hands slapping at Yanjun’s bicep harmlessly. “You’re too handsome to say things like that so casually!” Zhangjing cries. Laughter erupts out of them both again, and Yanjun tries to defend himself from Zhangjing’s attack by taking hold of both of the shorter boy’s wrists.

Eventually, Zhangjing stills and Yanjun releases one hand and takes hold of the other, and wordlessly they continue walking, looking sideways at each other. After a moment, Zhangjing asks, “Are you regretting walking out of the bar with me yet?”

Yanjun shakes his head. The sun sets behind Zhangjing's head, illuminating him with its golden fire. “Not one bit.”

.

Zhangjing takes Yanjun to Ningxia Night Market. Though the night has barely started yet, already the crowds have started to gather along the stretch of road, queuing up in front of the stalls lining either side. Yanjun is hit with a barrage of smells, salty and savory and delicious, and his mouth starts to water.

“I hope you’re hungry,” Zhangjing says. They are still holding hands. Yanjun wonders if he’s noticed or if it feels as natural to him as it does to Yanjun.

As soon as Zhangjing says it, Yanjun realizes he’s starving. He hasn’t eaten anything since the toast this morning, too preoccupied with the little star on his hand and then with Zhangjing. His stomach clenches and rumbles. “I could eat a horse,” he says.

Zhangjing scrunches up his face in distaste. “I don’t think they sell any here. But I’m sure we can find something else to your liking.”

“Very funny, You Zhangjing,” Yanjun says, smirking. He finds he likes the way the name rolls off his tongue.

They set off into the crowd. There are food stalls that Zhangjing knows and loves and takes Yanjun to. They buy fried taro balls filled with pork at one stall and share an oyster omelet at another. They get sweet, sticky mochi balls covered in crushed peanuts and black sesame and laugh when they grin at each other and see they’ve both got black sesame stuck in their teeth. Then there are rice dishes, and noodles, and spring rolls to share. The sun has set and the crowds are thick by the time they reach a stand hawking papaya milk, which Yanjun has never tried before but Zhangjing insists is amazing. They buy one to share, and since the crowds are increasing even now, Yanjun throws his arm around Zhangjing’s shoulders to keep him close, and Zhangjing nestles against his side.

They wander for a little longer, watching a group of little kids playing a game at one stall where the prizes are cheap stuffed toys. They bypass the vendors selling stinky tofu.

On the way back, the crush of people intensifies even more, and Yanjun’s arm tightens around Zhangjing’s shoulders. Zhangjing looks up at him with a dip in his brows, concerned. “You okay?”

Yanjun looks down at him and tries to smile. “Yeah, fine,” he says, though sweat is starting to gather at his brow and his heart is thumping audibly in his own ears. He’s never liked crowds. He doesn’t mind so much being _in front_ of them, somehow, but being in them, in a mass of bodies and limbs, kind of makes Yanjun feel like he’s slowly drowning in deep water.

Zhangjing frowns. His hand comes up to Yanjun’s chest, to feel his heart beating wildly under his shirt. The contact surprises Yanjun enough that he gasps. Zhangjing says, voice full of understanding, “Let’s get out of here, hm?”

Yanjun nods gratefully when Zhangjing doesn’t need to say anything more.

.

They walk slowly along the city streets, meandering past shops and convenience stores and more restaurants. Yanjun’s belly is full like it hasn’t been in weeks, and he feels warm, and sated, and somehow peaceful. Zhangjing’s presence next to him steadies him like he is the eye of Yanjun’s ever-present storm.

“So, Lin Yanjun,” Zhangjing says. Their footsteps sync up. Yanjun has to shorten his strides in order to match Zhangjing’s, but he does so without thinking. “How old are you?”

“Oh, is it time to get to know each other?”

Zhangjing knocks his shoulder into him and they sway to the left together, then back to center. Yanjun laughs quietly.

“I’m 25,” he says. “You?”

“26,” Zhangjing says. “I’m older but when people ask, let’s tell them I’m the younger one, okay?”

“Why would we do that?”

“Just humor me,” Zhangjing says with a twinkle in his eyes.

“Okay.”

“Lin Yanjun, what do you do? Other than wait around in bars to be picked up.”

Yanjun swallows and looks down at his feet. “I’m, uh, in a band.”

“Yeah? Anything I might have heard?”

“Maybe,” Yanjun says. “The Nines?”

Zhangjing freezes. He looks at Yanjun with wide eyes, a new kind of light shining through them. “Shut the front door,” he says.

“Um.”

“The Nines? I love that song. The one. What’s the one? It goes, _I’ve been waiting this entire winter_ …” He sings the melody and hums through the words he can’t remember of the chorus, and Yanjun is enchanted by his sweet, clear voice. He barely registers that Zhangjing is actually singing one of their songs. “Is that it?” Zhangjing asks when he’s done.

“Your voice is so beautiful,” Yanjun blurts.

Zhangjing blushes and grins bashfully, showing all his teeth and then, as though realizing he’s grinning too widely, covers his mouth with his free hand. “I thought you looked familiar,” Zhangjing says. “So you’re kind of famous, huh?”

“Barely,” Yanjun says. “Our front man, Xukun, he--” He pauses, biting into his lip. “I mean, he used to be our front man. Xukun was more recognizable. He had the face.”

“You have a face,” Zhangjing quips. “A very nice one, I might even say.”

Yanjun’s bottom lip slips out from between his teeth as he grins. “I just mean, out of the three of us, he was the most famous.”

“But he’s gone?”

“Yeah,” Yanjun says. Zhangjing’s face falls as he tightens his hand around Yanjun’s, and Yanjun clarifies. “God, I mean, he’s not dead. He’s just -- left the band.”

“Why?”

Yanjun shrugs reflexively. He has tried not to think too hard on this, because no matter how he rationalizes Xukun’s decision initially, his thoughts almost always circle back to: he wasn’t good enough for Xukun to stay. And that always hurts, even if it’s not necessarily true or what Xukun intended for anyone to think. It's just the way Yanjun is wired.

Because the thing is, Yanjun understands. Xukun has always wanted to make music and make it big. He came from a family who didn’t -- doesn’t -- understand or support his dream and has fought hard to make his dreams come true. And despite his dream to be in the spotlight, Xukun isn’t selfish. Yanjun knows that. He’s heard rumors about how a percentage of the proceeds from Xukun’s first single will be given to various charities and foundations he's hoping to continuously support. 

“I think,” Yanjun says slowly, “he wanted a bigger platform for his music and message and stuff. I guess he kind of outgrew us.”

“But it gives you and your bandmate -- what’s his name? -- a chance to change things up. And maybe to grow a little bit yourselves,” Zhangjing offers.

“Ziyi,” Yanjun says. He feels his heart flutter at the hopeful glance Zhangjing sends his way. “And yeah. We’re figuring things out.”

A short, full silence as they walk. Zhangjing’s hopefulness hangs over them, drapes across Yanjun’s shoulders. He's starting to feel it, too.

“And you? What do you do?”

“Oh,” Zhangjing says, skipping a bit. “I’m a music teacher and vocal trainer. I teach kids how to sing.”

“Makes sense. I’m sure you’re amazing at it.”

“I’m not bad,” Zhangjing says, licking his lips and smiling. They stop in front of a door between a laundromat and a brightly-lit convenience store. Zhangjing faces him, the smile on his face turning mischievous. “I wasn’t really paying attention, but it seems we’ve walked to my place...Do you want to come up for a bit?”

.

Yanjun goes up for a bit. Zhangjing’s apartment is small and homey, a bit like Zhangjing himself. The furniture is crammed and there isn’t enough space for all of his shoes by the entrance but Yanjun finds himself charmed, regardless. Zhangjing fixes them both some tea and they sit on the couch sipping it, thighs touching, grinning over the rims of their mugs. The older boy turns on the television but neither of them watch what is on the screen, instead turning to each other to chat about nothing and everything, their voices a low murmur like everything is a secret shared between them.

The world feels warm and soft and lovely, and it smells like tea, floral and musky. Zhangjing’s so pretty blinking slowly and stifling his yawns and grinning at Yanjun that Yanjun can hardly stand it. After another moment Yanjun clears his throat and puts his mug down on the coffee table.

“Zhangjing,” he says, “can you please put your tea down so that I can kiss you?”

Zhangjing puts his tea down and turns to face Yanjun, his eyes glowing, his grin like a cat that’s caught its prey. “What if I don’t want you to kiss me? What if I invited you up here for some very platonic tea and nothing more?”

Yanjun pretends to think even as their faces draw closer, Zhangjing’s eyes flicking to Yanjun’s lips and back up. His arm winds around Zhangjing’s shoulders as Zhangjing curls his smaller body against Yanjun’s side. “Then I would apologize for reading our entire evening wrong, and hope that maybe we could stay friends. How’s that?”

“Hm,” Zhangjing says. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and the movement makes Yanjun’s breath stutter. “I don’t like that. I guess you should kiss me, after all.”

Their lips touch gently, and Yanjun laughs against Zhangjing’s mouth.

Zhangjing keeps their faces close, rubbing the tip of his nose against Yanjun’s. “What’s so funny?” he muses.

“Nothing,” Yanjun says. “I’m happy. Your lips are really soft.”

“Yours are a bit chapped,” Zhangjing says, kissing Yanjun again lightly. “But I can fix that.” He climbs into Yanjun’s lap and straddles him, and Yanjun’s hands fall naturally to hold Zhangjing’s hips. Then he kisses him again, deeper, heavier, pushing against Yanjun and pressing their chests flush together. When Yanjun parts his lips for a breath Zhangjing is there, his tongue against Yanjun’s teeth, licking into him as he slowly, slowly grinds against Yanjun’s lap.

“Is this real?” Yanjun gasps when Zhangjing rolls his hips and brushes against him.

“Very,” Zhangjing says, cupping Yanjun’s face in his hands so he can guide him into another kiss.

They make out on the couch for a very long time. Yanjun isn’t sure how long. All he knows is that he could probably do this forever, kiss Zhangjing sweetly, feel his lips against his, knead his fingers into Zhangjing’s hips. The older boy is in no rush and neither, surprisingly, is Yanjun himself. When Zhangjing pulls Yanjun down to lay on the couch beside him, he has to stifle a yawn in his mouth, but Zhangjing notices anyway and giggles.

“Did I wear you out, big boy?”

“God,” Yanjun whines, fitting himself around Zhangjing’s side the way a koala clings to a tree. He tangles their legs together and rests his head on the smaller boy’s chest. “Don’t tease me like that.”

Zhangjing’s fingers come up to card through Yanjun’s hair. “We could make out a little more,” Zhangjing says quietly, his voice a little rough. “Or we can just chill. If you’re tired.”

“I like this,” Yanjun whispers.

“Okay.” Though he can’t see Zhangjing’s smile, he can feel is in the way his chest expands as he sighs. “What is this, by the way?”

Yanjun cranes his neck to look at what Zhangjing could be referring to, ending up getting a perfect view up Zhangjing’s nostrils. But Zhangjing is looking at Yanjun’s hand on his chest, and with light fingers, the older boy picks up Yanjun's hand. His thumb brushes over the little star between Yanjun’s thumb and forefinger.

“You keep rubbing it,” Zhangjing says. “I don’t think you noticed it yourself.”

Yanjun watches his hand in Zhangjing’s, catalogs the contrast in their skin tones and admires the way their fingers slot together. The little star is smudged but still intact. “My friend drew it on me,” Yanjun says. “A star for going a meal without drinking. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Zhangjing says immediately, fingers tightening around Yanjun when Yanjun tries to pull away. “Here, wait.” He reaches with his free hand to his coffee table and searches through some of the junk that’s accumulated in one corner of the table. When he withdraws his hand there is a pen in his fingers. Without a word, he sits up a little bit, bringing Yanjun with him, and presses the tip of the pen against Yanjun’s skin, right next to the smudged star already there.

“What are you doing?”

“Giving you another star,” Zhangjing says. His eyes narrow and his tongue peeks out from between his lips as he concentrates on drawing the outline of the shape on Yanjun. It’s small and the ink this time is blue. “You went another meal without, so you deserve another star.”

Yanjun is quiet as Zhangjing works, a foreign, warm feeling welling up inside of his chest. It swells so much that he doesn't think he can feel anything else. When Zhangjing is finished he sinks back down against the cushions and puts Yanjun’s hand back atop his chest, and then puts his own hand over his. Yanjun can feel Zhangjing’s heart beating under his palm, slow and steady, a rhythm he hopes to memorize. “Thank you,” Yanjun says. “For today. For everything.”

Zhangjing hums. “Thank you for coming with me.”

 _I feel like I’ve known you forever,_ Yanjun wants to say, but he holds back, fearing that he’ll come across too strong and ruin everything.

.

At an ungodly hour in the morning Yanjun wakes to a vibrating coming from his pocket and a horrible cramp in his neck. His mouth feels like cotton and tastes like the underside of a pig. He groans, disentangling himself carefully from Zhangjing, who sleeps with his mouth slightly open -- how cute, he thinks absently -- and sitting up to dig his hand into his pocket.

He has two messages on his phone from Ziyi that he feels righteous in ignoring due to the earliness of the morning. Seriously, it should be illegal to send and receive messages before seven. He crawls off the couch and shuffles into bathroom to relieve himself and wash his hands, accidentally smudging the little stars on his hand even more, the black ink mixing with the blue in the soapy water going down the drain. He ends up washing the stars off completely.

Then he shuffles into the kitchen, hoping to find some way to make coffee or tea. If that fails, he supposes he can go back to the couch to cuddle with Zhangjing, but his head is starting to throb and he thinks a little bit of caffeine will help.

While searching through Zhangjing’s cabinets, he brings up the messages from Ziyi and reads them. The first is a song demo and a request for Yanjun to listen and give some feedback. He can do that later. The second is a link to a video. The thumbnail image of the video autoloads in the message window, and Yanjun nearly drops his phone in the sink. It’s Xukun for Elle. Ziyi’s accompanying message is: _not sure if you’ve seen this yet. you doing okay bro? call me if you need to talk._

It is a reminder of the world outside of Zhangjing's couch. That foreign but warm, settled feeling in his chest starts to shift. In its place is the usual cold, aching emptiness that takes over as though it was waiting in the shadows. The thoughts that had laid dormant when he was with Zhangjing crowd against the edges of his mind now, creeping into his nooks and crannies. He imagines himself standing the sun, basking in its warmth, and suddenly without noticing, the sky becomes overcast and dark, and a chill follows. The problem with Yanjun is that the shadows, the overcast and dark, are his familiars. It seems he can only stand the sun for so long.

He opens a cabinet below the counters hoping to come across coffee grounds and gasps when he sees a couple bottles of wine, and a smaller bottle of soju. Immediately, he closes the cabinet door, heart pounding in his chest like he’s just finished sprinting.

Then he opens it again, slowly, peeking into the cabinet. Maybe if he opens it slowly enough, the bottles of wine will not be there. Maybe he’d imagined it. But no, when the door is open again he can clearly see the bottles. The glass is bright green like emeralds, the bottles cool to the touch. He brings out the soju, and opens it before he even realizes what he’s doing.

Just a sip to help his head with the pounding, he thinks. Just a tiny little sip.

.


	6. zhengting

“Zhengting-ge!”

Zhengting looks up from where he’s stretching on the hardwood floor, legs spread into a wide straddle, to see Justin jogging over to him, waving and wearing a bright grin on his face. The younger boy crosses the dance floor in a few quick strides, the black leggings he’s wearing accentuating the lines of his long legs. He skips past Zeren stretching at the bar and nearly trips over Quanzhe and Xinchun, who are doing partner stretches on the floor, and then manages to gracefully fall to the ground in front of Zhengting in a seat, feet tucked under him.

“Yes, Justin?” Zhengting asks with a little grin. It’s no secret that Zhengting has a few favorites in the studio, and Justin happens to be one of them.

“Yibo wants to see you,” Justin says like the dutiful messenger that he is. “Said it’s important.”

Zhengting tenses and tries not to let it show on his face. “Did he say what it’s about?”

Justin shrugs. “Nope.”

“Did he seem mad?”

“Eh,” Justin says, raising his hand and waving it to and fro, accompanied by a strange sort of grimace on his face. “Maybe.”

Zhengting reaches forward to take Justin’s hand into his and shakes it. “Justin! I need more than that to go on.” Justin’s grin turns mischievous, and Zhengting throws his hand back to him, sitting up and drawing his legs together. “Trouble maker,” he tsks.

“You’re just so easy to rile up,” Justin explains. “But seriously, he wants to see you.”

Zhengting stands and raises his hands up to the ceiling as he does so, feeling a glorious stretch along his ribs and spine. He watches himself in the mirrors that make up an entire wall in the studio. His cropped tank rides up, exposing a little bit of his taut tummy as he goes up onto his toes, arching his back a little, before he settles back down to the earth with a sigh. “Fine, urchin,” he says, reaching down to ruffle Justin’s meticulously styled hair.

“Hey!”

“Deal with it,” Zhengting says, hips swaying as he heads out of the studio and into the lobby, where he knows Yibo is waiting.

.

Yibo is guiding Zhenghao, the newest member to join their group and studio, through how to answer the phone when Zhengting approaches. The older man notices the slender dancer and stands, indicating with a finger for Zhengting to follow him. “Cover the front desk for me, Haohao,” Yibo says. “This will only take a few minutes.”

Zhenghao looks up at Zhengting with wide eyes, clearly a little overwhelmed by the responsibility Yibo has just bequeathed him. He’s young, still in college, and his naivety and inexperience shows through in this moment. Zhengting leans over the counter and whispers to him in reassurance, “No one ever calls anymore. It’s all email.”

Zhenghao nods and offers Zhengting a small, appreciative smile. “I'll be fine; I can work a phone. Thanks, Zhengting. Good luck.”

Yibo’s office is really just a repurposed broom closet. Though the studio isn’t struggling by any means, space is small and valuable, and Yibo made the decision early on that as much space as possible would be dedicated to dancing and to the dancers. He has enough space in the closet for a small desk and his laptop and a standing fan for when it gets unbearably hot, but that’s about it. They squeeze in together and pull out two folding chairs Yibo has lined against the wall. Mostly, the office is for private calls and conversations. Zhengting sits in one of the chairs, unsure why he’s been called, one of his legs shaking in a nervous tell.

“Relax,” Yibo says, taking the other seat and eyeing Zhengting’s wiggling knee. His small desk is between them. “You’re not in trouble and I’m not here to give you constructive criticism. I actually wanted to talk to you because you’ve gotten some interest.” He pauses, letting the words ring in the air and sink in. Zhengting’s mouth falls open. Yibo continues, smiling and clearly enjoying himself, “There was a scout at our last performance. I didn’t mention it because I didn’t want anyone to freak out. He noticed you and he’s interested in meeting you to talk about future opportunities.”

“What?” Zhengting says. A smile stretches across his face even as his brain tells him to be skeptical, wary, not-too-optimistic. “Are you being serious?”

“Why would I joke?”

“I don’t know,” Zhengting admits, his smile spreading until it feels like his face could split in half. “I don’t know, I just—”

Never imagined he’d get out of Taipei on his dancing merit alone. Thought he’d maybe grow into a dancer good enough to start his own studio and teach kids for a while, maybe adults, but adults were harder. Being scouted, maybe even joining a real company — that was something Zhengting never dared to dream for himself.

“You’re talented,” Yibo says. “The only thing you really need to work on is to stop selling yourself short.”

Zhengting ducks his eyes. A blush crawls across his cheeks. “Ah, that’s--”

“I’m being serious,” Yibo interrupts before Zhengting can make his excuses. “Don’t turn this one down before you even meet them. You’ve already done that once.”

“The timing wasn’t--”

“The timing will probably never be right,” Yibo says. “But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t go for it. People are noticing you. Step up.”

The air sits heavy between them. Zhengting feels the fire behind Yibo’s eyes directed at him right in the center of his chest, and it is both burdensome and awesome. He nods, his knee shaking even more. But he nods. “Okay. Yes. What do I do?”

Yibo smiles at him, and shows him a contact card. It’s small and rectangular, matte black with shiny gold print embossed on it. He says, “I’ll set up the meeting. Just show up.”

.

The next time the company scout will be in Taipei is in three weeks, so Yibo sets up a time for the scout and Zhengting to meet then, at the studio. From there, the countdown starts. He has three weeks to prepare or refine a solo routine that he can show the scout, and Yibo advises Zhengting to brush up on his Japanese.

“But I don’t know any Japanese,” Zhengting says to Yibo when he’s telling him the details of the meeting.

“Then you better watch some anime,” Yibo says lightheartedly, which Zhengting doesn’t take in a very lighthearted way at all. If Yibo says he needs to brush up on his Japanese, he’ll be ready to have a decent conversation about the weather and favorite foods in the other language in three weeks. And he throws himself into preparations.

“You’re adorable when you’re working so hard,” Wenjun says a week later as Zhengting videochats with him on his phone. The dancer lounges prone in his bed and has a vague awareness that it’s around midnight, while for Wenjun it’s early evening in Madrid, and he’s just come out of the shower. They are both shirtless in bed, but all of Zhengting is focused on the beginner’s Japanese book in front of him.

“Arigato,” Zhengting says, enunciating each syllable carefully. “But I’m trying to study.”

“Then why did you call me?” Wenjun asks, shifting on his own bed in his hotel room halfway across the world. Zhengting watches the image on his phone’s screen shake as Wenjun settles himself into a new position, lying on his back with his hand behind his head, the phone probably in his other hand above him. It gives Zhengting a fantastic view of Wenjun’s finely shaped collarbones.

“Maybe I missed you,” Zhengting says, eyes skimming over the phrases on the page in front of him.

“Maybe I miss you, too.” He hears the smile in Wenjun’s voice. “You’re going to be amazing, you know. The scout will definitely want you.”

Zhengting pouts and pushes the book away slightly, making room for him to cross his arms and lay his head on them like a pillow. “I don’t know if I’m ready,” Zhengting admits quietly to Wenjun. “Tokyo? A company?”

“You’re incredible,” Wenjun says. “You’re ready.”

“But, Wenjun. I’d have to leave Taipei.”

“Yeah,” Wenjun says, his brows furrowing. “I suppose you will.”

His boyfriend doesn’t get it. Wenjun has been traveling around the world since he was fifteen, since he was picked up by a global modeling agency and thrust under runway lights into a life of high fashion. He has an apartment in Taipei and an apartment in Hong Kong and another one in New York and he doesn’t really call anywhere home, and that’s okay with him, because he feels comfortable anywhere. “As long as I can get to you,” Wenjun told him once early on in their relationship, “then I’ll be fine.”

But for Zhengting, it’s different. Even though he moved to Taipei with his mother when he was very young, he grew up here. He found his friends here. He went to middle school and then high school with Ziyi, and Yanjun, and Xukun. Taipei is home.

“I don’t know if I can leave,” Zhengting says finally. “Especially now. With things being so...weird. With Ziyi and the others. They need me.”

Wenjun is quiet. His forehead wrinkles in thought, and Zhengting wishes he could reach across their screens to press his fingers against Wenjun’s skin and smooth those wrinkles out with his lips.

Wenjun says, “I know you think they need you, but I think they’d be just fine if you wanted to strike out on your own, do something for yourself, baby.”

.

It’s two in the morning when Zhengting’s phone rings on his bed. He wakes with a mouthful of blanket and realizes belatedly he must have fallen asleep on Wenjun. Thinking it must be his boyfriend calling, he swipes his finger across his screen to answer the call.

“What?” he mutters, muffled. He pats his hands around on the phone screen until he can make it go on speaker, too lazy to try to bring the actual device to his ear.

“Um,” someone says on the other line who is not Wenjun. “Is this Zhu Zhengting?”

The speaker has a sweet, melodic voice. Zhengting raises himself up onto his elbows, squinting at the phone. “Who’s asking?”

“This is You Zhangjing,” the stranger says. “It’s about Lin Yanjun.”

Zhengting groans audibly. “No. Call Wang Ziyi. Yanjun will have his number. I’m too tired to pick his ass up from the bar right now.”

A slight pause on the other end. “Well, you see…” Zhangjing begins. “He’s not at the bar. We’re at the hospital. National Taiwan University. He’s mostly okay!” he adds quickly. “Just banged up. And dumb. But I thought you’d like to know. I’m calling Wang Ziyi next.”

“Wait, what?”

“It might be...good for you to come by,” Zhangjing suggests.

“Shit,” Zhengting curses into the phone. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.”

“Don’t worry. He’s going to be okay,” Zhangjing says, and somehow Zhengting knows Zhangjing isn’t talking about just healing broken bones or bruises. He wonders who this Zhangjing guy is, to be able to convey so much with so little.

“I’m on my way,” Zhengting says. “Thanks for calling.”

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've now put yanjun in the hospital twice in two fics!! i'm sorry my baby boy ;A;


	7. ziyi

It’s nearly three in the morning when Ziyi finds the room in the hospital where Yanjun is laid up in bed.

“He’ll be okay,” Zhangjing had said, this stranger over the phone, yet somehow Ziyi implicitly, immediately trusted him. “But I think he needs his friends right now.”

There’d been some confusion and a little bit of mild panic after the receptionist initially gave Ziyi the wrong room number and he’d come upon an empty room, needing to go back to the receptionist for the right room number this time and assurances that nothing horrible had happened to his friend. Turns out the hospital had to move Yanjun when another patient recognized him, secretly took a picture of him, and posted it to their social media account. That explains the tired-looking men standing around in the hospital waiting room with heavy cameras hanging around their necks. Ziyi is glad he thought to bring his cap and mask with him when he got the call from Zhangjing. He ducks his head as he passes the paparazzi, hearing their shutters going off behind him. They don't follow him, though. 

There’s someone posted at the door. Ziyi approaches and makes direct eye contact just as the guy raises his hand in a gesture that clearly means: _stop right where you are_. He has a stern, straight face and is wearing the scrubs of a nurse. “What are you looking for?” he asks Ziyi.

“My friend,” Ziyi says behind his black face mask. “Lin Yanjun. The receptionist said he’s in this room.”

“What’s your name?”

“Wang Ziyi,” Ziyi states, standing up a little straighter. He pulls his mask down so that the fabric bunches under his chin and tries to grin to show he's not hiding anything.

“Oh!” the nurse says, stepping aside and pushing the door open for him. “Why didn’t you say so?”

Ziyi walks through, smiling with a little uncertainty and nodding his thanks as the nurse closes the door behind him again. The room is small, and Ziyi counts three people standing around the bed against the wall. Yanjun is there in bed, sitting up slightly with the covers pulled up to his armpits, blue hair bright and electric against the white pillows and sheets. He looks at Ziyi when he enters, and three heads simultaneously turn to greet Ziyi as well.

There’s Zhengting, and Yixing, and a stranger who must be Zhangjing, who stands the closest to Yanjun, his hand resting near Yanjun’s shoulder on the mattress, like he can’t bear to be too far from him.

“Hi,” Ziyi says. His voice comes out rough and raspy.

“Hi,” Zhengting says, arms crossed against his chest. There’s a line between his eyebrows that looks like it’s been carved into his face.

Yanjun ducks his eyes. His left arm is in a sling and he has a deep, purple bruise on his jaw but otherwise, he looks okay. And yet, the aura in the room is so heavy and oppressive that Ziyi wonders how anyone can be breathing in here.

He approaches the bed. There’s space for him to stand next to Zhengting, by Yanjun’s right shoulder, and he goes, bending over to give Yanjun an awkward, one-armed hug. “Are you okay?” he asks against Yanjun’s ear before straightening.

“I’ll live,” Yanjun says quietly.

“What happened?”

Zhengting scoffs, and Ziyi’s eyes flick to him. He looks annoyed, spots of red blooming high on his cheeks, arms still crossed. Yanjun flinches in response, and Zhangjing shifts almost imperceptibly closer, his hand now on Yanjun’s left shoulder.

“This idiot could have died,” Zhengting says.

“But I didn’t,” Yanjun says at the same time Yixing, who’s been quiet this whole time, says, “It’s lucky he was wearing a helmet.”

Yanjun seems to shrink into the bed, trying to make himself smaller, but he’s a relatively tall man, and this doesn’t work. Still, the action and intent distresses Ziyi. “What happened?” he asks again, looking at Zhangjing this time.

Zhangjing reaches across the bed with a hand. “I’m You Zhangjing,” he says. His voice is bright and clear and a little bit hypnotizing. “Thanks for coming.”

Ziyi meets his hand with his hand, and they shake. “Ziyi.”

Zhangjing nods and they break apart. He clears his throat. “Yanjun had a couple of drinks, and then he had the grand idea of driving home on his motorcycle, even though I told him he could just stay over. I don’t know why he insisted. He got away from me and managed to make it a whole block before he crashed.” Zhangjing continues, his tone so calm and collected that it feels threatening, like he’s holding something huge and explosive back. “Flew off his bike. Broke his wrist. Scraped up his palms and knees. Apparently, he was all soft and relaxed during impact which helped him not break all of his bones. So that’s nice.”

Yanjun won't look at them. “Sorry,” he whispers to his lap.

“Sorry?” Zhengting says in a tight, shrill voice, throwing his hands up into the air. “Sorry? You could have died. You really could have, Yanjun. What were you thinking?”

Yanjun stays quiet. He looks absolutely miserable, his eyes dark and shadowed and full of guilt, and Ziyi isn’t sure what he feels. He’s glad Yanjun is whole, that nothing worse happened, but he’s also scared. There’s a little knot forming in the pit of his belly that he recognizes as acute worry and concern for Yanjun, and he’s not really sure how to express it. He remembers drawing the star on Yanjun’s hand the other day and thinks about how silly that had been, how inconsequential. It was a substitute for a real conversation, and it failed. He should have told Yanjun then, how worried he was for him if he kept this up, how he didn’t want to lose him. He couldn’t lose him.

Because this isn’t the first time Yanjun had turned up hurt. And Ziyi is sure that if something doesn’t change, it won’t be the last.

He puts his hand on Zhengting’s shoulder in an effort to calm him, and Zhengting deflates with a sigh.

“We’re just worried about you,” Ziyi says. “This can’t keep happening, Yanjun.”

“I’m sorry,” Yanjun says again.

“You need to get help,” Yixing says. His voice cuts through the room. Yanjun finally looks up at him, expression haunted. Zhangjing’s fingers curl tighter into Yanjun’s shoulder. Yixing says, “I’m your manager, and I say you need to get help. This isn’t the first time I’m seeing something like this, kid.”

“What, like a support group?” Yanjun asks incredulously. 

Yixing shrugs. “Whatever works for you. Support group. Therapy. Knitting. Gardening. My point is, you’re not alone. We care about you. And you need help.”

“Knitting?” Yanjun repeats, mouth falling open.

Zhangjing laughs softly, the sound like a breeze breaking up a still summer day. “Are you sure you didn’t suffer a concussion?”

“You’re actually so mean to me, I don’t know why I keep you around,” Yanjun says.

Zhangjing, unphased, drops a kiss against the crown of Yanjun’s head as Yanjun’s eyelids flutter closed. The action makes Ziyi feel like he’s intruding on something intensely intimate, and he almost turns away to give them some privacy. But then the moment is over, and Zhangjing says, “I organize interventions for you. Plus, you can’t hide your smile around me.”

Which makes Yanjun smile. His whole face changes and brightens, and Ziyi’s mood starts to lift, too. Ah, Ziyi thinks, so this is Zhangjing.

There’s a knock at the door. Yixing abruptly steps away from the group, straightening his jacket and his cap. “I have to take care of the media,” he announces like he's coming out of a trance. “Ziyi, we liked the song. Yanjun, I’m serious about the help,” he continues, pointing at the boy in bed. “I’m calling you tomorrow and we’ll talk a game plan.”

Yanjun nods and gulps, and the door opens as Yixing nears it. Their manager pauses for a moment, hand on the doorframe, before he leaves, but then door doesn’t close, and Ziyi realizes that is because there is someone else behind it.

The other person walks through. The figure is tall and lanky, and he’s wearing a hoodie with the hood pulled up, sunglasses and mask nearly covering all of his face. But even with the efforts to disguise, Ziyi’s heart rises up to his throat from his chest, because he recognizes the slouch of the other man’s shoulders.

And then the newcomer takes off his sunglasses, and Ziyi’s heart just about stops completely as he reveals his eyes, dark and piercing and achingly familiar.

“Yanjun,” Xukun says in that husky, soft voice of his. “I came as fast as I could.”

.


	8. xukun

Yanjun stares at him from the bed like he’s seeing a ghost, his face paling, the irises of his eyes a stark contrast against the whites, and Xukun experiences a moment of uncertainty. He stays where he is just inside the door as a ripple passes through the room, his name on everyone’s lips. He sees how shock moves across Zhengting’s face and dissipates into something softer, almost welcoming. The stranger by Yanjun smiles a close-lipped smile at him, and Xukun smiles back, the curve of his lips feeling foreign on his own face, the kind of smile he gives to reporters and interviewers who ask questions he’s not ready to answer.

And then there’s Ziyi. Dressed in black sweats and a black sweatshirt like Zhengting’s shadow made corporeal, cap pulled low over his eyes. Xukun tries to keep his heart from bursting out of his chest, and takes a breath, because Ziyi isn’t really looking at him. He’s looking past him, like Xukun isn’t even there, and yet Xukun can’t seem to drag his gaze away from Ziyi now that he’s seen him, like Ziyi has some kind of gravitational black-hole pull over him.

“What are you doing here?” Yanjun asks, his voice small. Xukun rips his attention away from Ziyi to focus on the man in the hospital bed.

The stranger by the bed shifts. “I called him,” he says. “Cai Xukun, thanks for coming. I’m You Zhangjing.”

“Ah, so you’re the one who called,” Xukun acknowledges. A part of him itches to step forward and reach out, shake his hand. Anything. But a larger part of him keeps him rooted to his spot as though his feet have turned to ice. The frost in the room chills him to his bones, and he knows it’s all coming from one direction. He turns to Zhengting instead, who is suddenly in his personal space, throwing his arms around Xukun in a tight embrace.

“It’s good to see you,” Zhengting says, and Xukun knows he means it. Xukun wraps his arms around the dancer's narrow waist and murmurs the same into his ear. The ice starts to chip away.

“Zhangjing made it sound like it was dire,” Xukun says.

Zhangjing blushes adorably, his ears turning slightly pink, as Yanjun narrows his eyes at him. “I know you guys haven’t spoken in a while,” Zhangjing admits. His hand comes up so he can card his fingers through Yanjun’s hair, and Yanjun -- seemingly despite himself -- tilts his head into the touch like a cat bumping against your palm for head scratches. “So I...elaborated.”

“I would have come anyway,” Xukun says. “I would have.”

“Thanks for taking time out of your busy schedule,” Ziyi snaps, his tone harsh and biting. He seems shocked with himself for saying something so spiteful, if the way he bites his lips after is any indication. He crosses his arms, huffing, and turns his back to Xukun to face Yanjun again.

“Ziyi,” Zhengting scolds lightly. The hand on Ziyi’s shoulder is rebuffed.

Yanjun looks between his friends, all of them, and sits up a little higher, his chest rising and falling with his breaths. “I’m happy you came,” he says, looking at Xukun. “Really.” His lips curl up into a little smirk, the teasing one that Xukun has missed, and holds out his hand, the one that isn’t in a sling. “If I’d known this would get your attention, I would have done this sooner.”

The ice chips away some more. Xukun rolls his eyes and shuffles forward until he can reach Yanjun, take his hand, and bend over to give him a hug, mindful of his injured arm. “No you wouldn’t have,” Xukun says. “Nor shouldn’t have. I assume everyone’s already told you to stop being an idiot?”

“Oh, yes,” Yanjun says with a nod. “So many times. Heard it loud and clear.”

Zhangjing chimes in, “But if you want to add your own take, please do.”

Zhengting, now across the bed from Xukun, giggles and throws his arm around Ziyi’s shoulder, shaking the other man slightly, and Xukun feels his chest and shoulders relax. The ice he felt in the room is mostly gone. Ziyi still won’t look at him but his face has softened, and that’s enough for now. Xukun is here for Yanjun, after all. He doesn’t want this strange, hurtful distance between himself and Ziyi to get in the way of showing Yanjun he cares about him. So he does his best to bury the pining ache in his chest.

“Please stop being an idiot,” Xukun says, grinning at Yanjun. “Please don’t get hurt again. Please talk to us. To me. You can talk to me. I’m sorry I haven’t been communicating. I really am.”

It hits him, now that he’s in a room with his friends he hasn’t seen in months. That Yanjun was so far gone last night he could have gotten seriously injured. That Xukun’s been alone for weeks in a whirlwind of new experiences, in preparations for his upcoming single and album, and every time he’s wanted to reach out to one of them to share something cool or exciting or disappointing or anything at all about his day, he’s hesitated, uncertain any one of them wants to hear from him at all.

“Don’t cry,” Yanjun says. “You’ll make me cry.”

“I’m not crying,” Xukun says stubbornly.

“Your nose is turning red,” Yanjun points out.

Zhengting hiccups and lets out a little sob, crossing the space between them and hugging Xukun again, more tightly even than before, swaying them both back and forth, and this is what breaks Xukun’s will as his first tears spill over and emotion crashes into him like a wave.

“I missed you, loser,” Zhengting says.

“I missed you, too,” Xukun says. “All of you. I’m really sorry. I should have called, or texted, but I just didn’t know--”

“Shh,” Zhengting says, rubbing Xukun’s back as the wave crests and falls. “It’s okay. You’re here, now.”

They sway for a little while longer together, until it starts to feel a little silly, until the few tears on Xukun’s cheeks have dried, and finally Yanjun clears his throat and says, “I’m sorry, but I am the injured one here; I thought this was about me?”

Which is so typical of something Yanjun would say that Xukun almost starts crying again, because he’s missed this. He’s missed his friends. He detaches from Zhengting and goes over to Yanjun, leans over and plants a big, loud kiss on the boy’s forehead, and Yanjun grunts and wrinkles his nose.

“Of course. This is all about you,” Xukun says. “I hope you feel better soon, idiot.”

.

They end up staying at the hospital for a few more hours, catching up. Xukun tells them about the craziness of preparations, the amount of work that goes into putting together one ad, and Zhengting tells them about an audition he has coming up for a company.

“That’s crazy, man,” Yanjun says, grinning sleepily at them both. “I’m sure it’ll be amazing.”

Xukun can see the nervous energy that Zhengting is trying hide when he talks about the audition, and squeezes his arm around him in solidarity. He knows how hard it can be to go out on your own and make your own way. “I’ll support you every step of the way,” he promises.

“Hopefully financially,” Zhengting teases, huffing out a breathy laugh.

Ziyi is noticeably quiet; physically, he’s not distancing himself from the group, but Xukun knows that he’s put up a wall between himself and the others. He keeps his face carefully blank, only allowing tiny smiles to break through when necessary. He doesn’t talk about what he’s been up to, so it’s Xukun who asks.

“Writing,” is all Ziyi says. That one word response hurts.

It hurts because they used to tell each other everything. They used to be each other’s confidants and secret-keepers. They used to be so close it was like they could read each other’s thoughts. Now, when Xukun tries to see what’s going on behind Ziyi’s eyes, it feels like all he can come up with is static, and he hates it.

He hates that when he decided to pursue a solo career, Ziyi made it personal. Because that’s not what Xukun intended at all, but that’s how he took it. He hates that when he tried to talk to Ziyi about it, his own feelings got fucked up along the way and he made it worse. Said things he shouldn’t have said. He hates that he allowed their relationship to break apart on a bitter, angry note. It has planted a seed inside of him that’s grown into a tendriled, complicated web of uncertainties and needs and desires. He hates that his heart still flutters around in his throat whenever he looks at Ziyi, no matter how big of a fool he's being.

When Yanjun blinks and yawns for the third time within five minutes, Zhangjing announces to the group that it’s time for everyone to go, and he ushers everyone out with gentle nudges and promises to keep everyone updated of how Yanjun is doing.

It’s funny. Even though he’s so new, a stranger, Xukun kind of feels like he’s always been a part of their little group, like he’s always been a part of Yanjun, and he trusts him.

“He’s cute, isn’t he?” Zhengting asks them both quietly in the hallway. “Zhangjing, I mean.”

“Yeah, they look really good together,” Xukun agrees. He tries to make eye contact with Ziyi and is disappointed to find that Ziyi is looking down at his shoes, adjusting a mask over the lower half of his face. Xukun realizes he should be doing that too, and pulls the straps of his own mask over his ears.

“I should get going,” Zhengting says. He puts his hand on Xukun’s arm and squeezes, his smile serene and soft. “Don’t be a stranger, okay? I’ll see you soon.” He does the same to Ziyi, who kind of grunts in response. “You, too.”

Then he leaves, and it’s just Xukun and Ziyi in the hallway, Ziyi in black and Xukun in white, and Xukun feels something hot and desperate stirring in his chest. A nurse walks by, footfalls echoing against the ground and walls, and Ziyi turns when she passes, as though to follow her and go. The other man makes it three steps before Ziyi’s name falls from Xukun’s lips.

Ziyi’s shoulders tense as he freezes. It takes long, dreadful seconds for him to turn around. “Yeah?” he asks, all casual like he hasn’t just given Xukun the cold shoulder for the past hour and a half.

“Ziyi,” Xukun says. “Wait. Let’s --” He searches his mind for what he wants to say, but there’s too much, and a question stumbles out of his mouth instead. “Do you want to get something to eat?”

There’s a glimmer of surprise in Ziyi’s eyes. He hesitates, warring within himself, and Xukun dares to hope.

Ziyi nods, stuffing his hands into his pockets in his sweats. “What were you thinking?”

.

They find a small, narrow bar that’s still open at this time of night a few blocks down the road from the hospital, and set themselves up at the little table for two in a darker corner where the dim overhead lights barely reach so they feel safe enough to put away their masks. A waitress comes by to drop off flimsy paper menus in front of them, and Xukun’s stomach turns reading down the list of fried, greasy foods available. Maybe he’ll just get a drink. He’s not actually hungry, anyway.

They both order beers and no food. The waitress brings them a bowl of salted peanuts to snack on and their beers shortly after ordering, since there’s barely anyone else in the bar at the moment, just a few individuals sitting at the counter and one other couple in the booths. Xukun throws a handful of peanuts into his mouth to have something to do.

“So,” Ziyi says quietly.

“So,” Xukun says back. He sighs, takes a sip of his beer, and pulls a face. He’s never actually liked the taste of the drink. “How are you?”

Ziyi chuckles darkly, the sound hollow, like the echo you hear when you call out into a cave. “How am I?”

“Yeah,” Xukun says, insistent. He leans onto the table between them with his elbows. “How are you?”

“Great,” Ziyi says. It seems he can’t help but look handsome, even frustrated and annoyed like this, with his hair pushed back behind his ears, showcasing the sharp lines that make up the structure of his face. “My band is falling apart, one of my best friends just landed in the hospital, and I’ve lost all inspiration to write.”

Xukun frowns, taking another long pull from his drink. “But you were always writing.”

Ziyi shrugs, shaking his head. “Dunno. Guess I lost my touch.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Well,” Ziyi says, nostrils flaring slightly. “Not like it has anything to do with you.”

Xukun winces with the bottle in hand. “Ziyi, please--”

“What do you want, Xukun?” Ziyi asks. “You showed up for Yanjun, so thanks for that. But now what?”

“I want to talk,” Xukun says. “I missed you all. Even you, Ziyi. Most of all, you.”

“Well, I don’t want to talk.” Ziyi breathes heavily, knuckles white around the neck of his bottle, and he drinks, taking a long pull from the bottle, his throat working, and Xukun can’t look away.

“Don’t be like this.”

“Be like what? If you forgot, _you’re_ the one who left us.”

“I didn’t leave you!” Xukun says, almost yells. “I took a different professional step. But I didn’t leave you. I didn’t want to leave you.”

“Same thing,” Ziyi says.

Xukun’s scream gets caught between his teeth. He groans in frustration. He hasn’t slept in what feels like days and Ziyi is the same as he was when he left, the last day before everything crumbled between them. “It’s not the same thing! You made it the same thing!”

“You left the band,” Ziyi seethes. “You left us. You left _me_. That was you.”

Xukun rolls his eyes so far back that he almost loses his balance in his chair. “You’re still an idiot,” Xukun realizes, feeling hot and ridiculous for being hopeful. “You haven’t changed at all. You don’t get it. I’m sorry I wanted creative freedom. I’m sorry that taking this opportunity was something I couldn’t pass up. I’m sorry that I wasn’t happy being your fuck buddy muse!”

All the color drains from Ziyi’s face, and Xukun recoils. Realizes he went too far. He does that sometimes. But instead of apologizing, he jumps up out of his seat, hands shaking and heart hammering around in his chest like a wild animal trying to escape its cage. “I’m going to the bathroom,” he grits, and storms off.

He stumbles to the back and finds the single bathroom, slamming the door behind him. He goes to the sink and runs the faucet on cold, putting his hand underneath it. It’s icy. He leans over and splashes his face with it, gasping at the shock of cold against his skin. It clears the red from his vision, just a little.

Until the door slams open again, with Ziyi behind it. Ziyi with a low-burning fire in his eyes that smolders like coals. Ziyi who strides towards him with a growl, hands outstretched and cupping Xukun’s wet, cold face, who pushes him until he’s pressed against the wall. Who crashes his lips against Xukun’s in a rough, bruising kiss.

Xukun gasps again at the touch of skin on skin. The kiss crackles and burns through him like lightning. Ziyi slots his thigh against Xukun’s and presses, rubbing against him hard, like he’s punishing him, and Xukun moans, hands coming up to Ziyi’s hair so he can thread his fingers through it. He grabs a fistful in warning when Ziyi bites his bottom lip, but Ziyi pushes through the pain and kisses him deeper, grinding his hips against his. He can feel how they’re both hardening through their sweats, and he cries out against Ziyi’s mouth.

“Fuck,” he pleads, begs, curses.

Ziyi hisses, “You’re so -- fucking -- infuriating. Beautiful. So fucking gorgeous,” and presses the web of his hand between his thumb and forefinger against Xukun’s throat. Exerts just enough pressure for Xukun to become lightheaded, his hands searching under Ziyi’s sweatshirt for the right place so that he can rake his fingernails down Ziyi’s back.

Ziyi cries out when Xukun does so, back arching so that he grinds against Xukun harder. “Get on your knees,” Ziyi says, breathless. “Do it. I want to--”

“Yeah,” Xukun gasps, going down when Ziyi pushes him, hand in Xukun’s hair. Xukun’s hands are already at the waistband of Ziyi’s sweats, already pulling the elastic band down just far enough for him to pull out his cock, hard and stiff and blushing. He licks his lips, looking up at Ziyi from under his lashes, and Ziyi’s cock throbs in his hand.

“Open,” Ziyi orders. Xukun lets his jaw drop, lets Ziyi rub the head of his cock over his lush lips, lets him paint his cheek with precum, lets him push inside. He opens his mouth wider, accommodating as much of Ziyi as he can, gagging when Ziyi hits the back of his throat. “Ready?” Ziyi asks hurriedly, and all Xukun can do is flutter his eyelashes prettily at him and hum.

Ziyi fucks his mouth rough. He thrusts and knocks Xukun’s head back against the wall, and Xukun squeezes out tears and whimpers at the treatment, but doesn’t tell him to stop. He’s so hard in his own sweats he thinks he might explode. At some point Ziyi cups the back of Xukun’s head so that he’s not slamming him against the wall, and Xukun puts his hand down his own pants, palming himself in time to Ziyi’s quick, ruthless movements.

It doesn’t take long for either of them, and soon Ziyi is gasping, hips thrusting erratically, and Xukun squeezes himself around the base so that he doesn’t come too soon. He wants to feel Ziyi spill down his throat, struggle to swallow it all and keep it down.

“I’m gonna--” Ziyi manages, before he’s surging forward and lodging himself deep in Xukun’s throat, spilling inside of him. Xukun feels his release leaking from the corners of his mouth. He feels so dirty and full and his dick _hurts_. He needs to come. He squeezes himself a little tighter, whining when Ziyi is done and pulls out in one swift motion, cum and spit dribbling down his chin. Ziyi hoists him up by one arm and pushes him against the wall again, which Xukun is a little grateful for because his knees don’t seem to be working at the moment. And then his hand is covering Xukun’s around his dick and he’s making Xukun pull himself off, whispering into his ear. “Such a dirty boy, getting off to blowing me in the bathroom.”

Xukun throws his head back when he orgasms, knocking his skull against the tiles and seeing stars.

He comes to with Ziyi wiping him down and fixing his pants, to Ziyi rubbing his thumb against the corner of his lips. He tries to remember how to breathe, in and out, as his knees turn solid again.

“You good?” Ziyi asks gently, quietly, a hint of concern in his eyes. For what? For the rough treatment? They’ve done worse. Or better, depending on how you looked at it.

Xukun nods, unable to form words at the moment. Ziyi is still so close, their chests nearly touching. He could dart forward and steal a kiss from his lips, so Xukun does, and surprise lights up Ziyi’s eyes again.

“What was that?” Ziyi asks.

“A kiss,” Xukun says. His voice is wrecked and he dreads explaining the condition of his throat to his manager and company tomorrow. He’ll tell them he’s coming down with something and pop throat lozenges every hour. “I kissed you. Is that… are we… was that not okay?” His knees feel a little shaky again at the way Ziyi is looking at him.

Ziyi’s purses his lips into a tight frown, and Xukun’s stomach falls to his feet. “I don’t… I don’t know,” he says, almost in a whisper. He almost looks like he’s going to say something else, but then he just repeats, “I don’t know. I need to think.”

“Think,” Xukun parrots. “You just came down my throat, and you need to think.”

Strangely, Xukun feels -- empty. Like a void. Like he’s past emotion. Like he’s afraid of feeling anything. Ziyi stares at him, at his red, puffy lips, and doesn’t say a word. And Xukun is tired of that. He’s tired of throwing his love at someone who keeps putting it away in a jar to be studied later, like he could collect specimens of it forever. Maybe that’s why he feels empty. Because he’s given everything he has to give.

He pushes away from the wall and away from Ziyi to the sink. Runs the faucet and splashes water onto his face again, wiping off with the paper towels from the dispenser. “Well,” he says as he tosses the towels into the bin by the door. “You have my number. Let me know if you think of anything. Or don’t.”

He goes back to their table and puts some cash down for their drinks, and then he leaves.

.


	9. yanjun

The last bottle slips through his fingers as he’s taking it down from the top of his refrigerator and crashes to the kitchen floor, splintering into jagged pieces and splashing gin over his slippered feet. Yanjun gasps, taking a step back involuntarily, and hears glass crunch under his footfall.

“Don’t move!” Zhangjing says. He appears suddenly in the kitchen holding a plastic bag that’s full of bottles of various sizes he’s unearthed and collected over the past hour or so in Yanjun’s bedroom and bathroom. The bottles inside knock against each other as he places the bag on the floor. “Let me sweep it up. Did you get hurt?”

“Don’t think so,” Yanjun says, peering around his feet for any damage. The glass is clear and has exploded all over the kitchen floor, and the gin is soaking into his slippers.

“You should have let me get the higher stuff,” Zhangjing says, tsking and shaking his head. He comes back with a broom that Yanjun didn’t even know he had and sets off sweeping up the glass. It jingles like bells as he gathers all the shards into a pile by the refrigerator.

“But you’re shorter than I am.”

“But you’re injured,” Zhangjing says, looking pointedly at the sling that holds Yanjun’s left arm close to his chest. “You can move, now. I’m going to sweep again to make sure I got everything. Go sit down so you don’t hurt yourself.”

Pride dinged, Yanjun does as he’s told, stepping out of his slippers once he’s out of the kitchen so he’s not walking around in a puddle of gin. Probably, he’ll throw them out along with everything else. He walks over to his couch and plops himself down onto it, wincing when the movement jars his wrist. Stupid. He can’t even sit down without hurting himself. He’d kept the sling on because when he was released from the hospital, the first thing he did when he walked out the door was accidentally bang his wrist against the doorframe. A walking hazard to himself. The nurse had advised he keep the sling on while he's awake and moving around.

He sinks into the cushions, throwing his head over the back of the couch and staring up at his ceiling, and he listens as Zhangjing hums to himself, cleaning up the mess Yanjun made in his kitchen.

A few minutes later, Zhangjing’s face floats into his field of vision, his bright smile in shadow. Zhangjing grins when Yanjun startles, and he comes around the couch to sit down next to him, letting out a satisfied sigh. “I think I got the bedroom and bathroom,” Zhangjing says. “And the kitchen is clear. So are we done?”

He looks at Yanjun then, his eyes dark and searching, and Yanjun can’t look away. Zhangjing looks at him in a way that makes Yanjun want to tell him all his secrets, to show him all the dark, shadowed things he keeps locked away inside of his chest, because he thinks Zhangjing could handle it all, somehow. He could handle it all and then he could wipe away the shadows and dust collected in the bookcase of Yanjun’s heart and help him fill the shelves with brighter, more beautiful things. Yanjun closes his eyes and exhales.

He reaches forward and opens the drawer in the coffee table and rummages around inside with his hand, and takes out a small plastic bottle of whiskey, the kind that you find in the mini-fridge of fancy hotel rooms, or behind the counters of gas stations. He hands it over to Zhangjing, who takes it without a word. Then he rises and goes to his television stand. There are drawers in the piece of furniture, too, and he opens the drawer in the center underneath the television and takes out two more small plastic bottles of whiskey. He tosses them to Zhangjing, who catches them with his hands and lap.

“That should be it,” Yanjun says quietly.

Zhangjing nods. “Trash will be collected soon. Do you want to come throw it out with me?”

Yanjun eyes the two bags by his front door filled with bottles both empty and new, and shakes his head. Already he can feel anxiety start to crawl up his insides at the thought of throwing it all out. It’s expensive, his brain tries to rationalize. He’s spent so much on his alcohol collection and now he was just tossing it. It’s a waste. He shouldn’t toss it all. He could save a bottle or two. He might need it later. “You should just do it. Please.”

“Okay,” Zhangjing agrees. He leans into Yanjun and gazes up at him from underneath his lashes. “What do you want to do until then?”

“We could make out a little,” Yanjun whispers huskily.

Zhangjing licks his lips, eyes flicking down to catch Yanjun doing the same. “Yeah, okay.”

.

Yanjun stands at his window watching Zhangjing take the trash out. The collection trucks are playing Für Elise today, and there’s already a line of people waiting for the collectors to take their plastic bags from them. When the line is done, he watches the truck start up and drive away with all of his alcohol inside.

Even when he can no longer hear the music, he stays at the window, forehead pressed against the cool glass. He doesn’t know what to do. He should feel free. Like he’s starting fresh. But instead he feels like he’s suffocating. He feels like he does when he’s crushed into a crowd of strangers with no way out, his heart beating loud and fast in his ears and his breath starting to pick up pace. He registers his front door opening and closing, but he can’t move away from the window. His reflection in the glass is joined by Zhangjing’s, who slowly, carefully, envelops him from behind in a hug.

“You’re okay,” Zhangjing whispers against his back. “Breathe in, and out. Remember to breathe out.” He does. He pushes air out from between his lips, following Zhangjing's instructions. Inhales and the air hits the back of his throat and feels too cold and sudden and makes him cough. Zhangjing’s hand comes to rest over Yanjun’s heart. “That’s it,” he encourages gently. “You’re doing great.”

Gradually, it gets easier to breathe. But he feels lightheaded now, and sways when he pushes himself off the window.

“Let’s sit,” Zhangjing suggests.

Yanjun nods, following Zhangjing back to the couch, and doesn’t protest when Zhangjing makes him sit in the corner and crawls halfway on top of him to snuggle, knees curled up against his chest.

“Zhangjing,” Yanjun says. “You’re amazing.”

Zhangjing giggles. “I know.”

“I mean it,” Yanjun insists. “You’re -- you -- why are you doing all this? For me?”

Zhangjing lays his head on Yanjun’s shoulder and kisses the spot behind Yanjun’s ear. “I care about you,” he whispers.

“We’ve only known each other for a couple weeks. You could just drop me.”

Zhangjing pouts. “I don’t want to do that.”

“You’re way better than anything I deserve.”

Zhangjing moves so sharply and quickly that Yanjun almost yelps. He looks at Yanjun, eyes narrowed and gleaming. “Don’t say things like that. Don’t even think it, Lin Yanjun.”

Yanjun turns his face away, unable to bear that light behind Zhangjing’s eyes directed at him. “But it’s true.”

Zhangjing hooks his finger under Yanjun’s chin and guides him to face him again. He says, "It’s not true. We aren’t defined by what we deserve or don’t deserve. But if you must think like that, then maybe we deserve each other.” He pauses, chewing on his lip, before continuing, “I know what it’s like. To feel inadequate. To find a way to fix that feeling, even if only temporarily. For that thing you do to make yourself feel better to actually hurt you. I struggle with it every day.”

An addict, he doesn’t have to say.

“No.” It is a reaction stemmed from disbelief, but with Zhangjing’s finger under Yanjun’s chin, he can’t look away, and for the first time, he tries to look past the brightness of Zhangjing’s eyes. “What’s your vice?” he asks shakily.

“I was addicted,” Zhangjing says with with a great breath of air, “to not eating.”

It hits Yanjun like a sucker punch to his gut. To him, Zhangjing is perfect. Every inch of him, every pore on his body. He examines him now, for signs that what Zhangjing says is true. He can’t imagine it, his precious Zhangjing depriving himself of food, watching the needle move on the scale, thinking himself lesser than. He hooks his arm around Zhangjing’s waist. Zhangjing is small, petite, and Yanjun’s always taken that for granted. “Tell me more?” he asks.

Zhangjing sags against him like he's been deflated, letting go of Yanjun’s chin in favor of wrapping his arms around Yanjun’s waist and fitting his head right above the space where Yanjun’s collarbones meet in his chest. “It’s not a simple thing to explain,” he says. “For me, I guess what it came down to was that in high school and college I was sad, and pressured, and it constantly felt like I was losing control. Food was easy to control. It made me feel good, being in control of that. Until, you know, it controlled me. At my worst, I was probably...oh, a little over a hundred pounds? Spent some time in the hospital. Rehab. Therapy. I still go.”

“You didn’t tell me,” Yanjun whispers. He doesn’t want to sound like he’s blaming Zhangjing of hiding anything. It’s just a statement. His chest clenches painfully.

“Not a great conversation topic,” Zhangjing says. He chuckles lightly, using his finger to draw little patterns on Yanjun’s chest. “You didn’t tell me you were a drunk.”

“You figured it out, anyway,” Yanjun mumbles.

“I did, and I didn’t scare off.”

They sit in comfortable silence for a few moments. Zhangjing’s hair smells like Yanjun’s shampoo, and his body feels warm against his.

“Thank you for telling me,” Yanjun says into Zhangjing’s hair. “If you -- if you ever feel like that, please talk to me. I want to help. I don’t want you to hurt.”

Zhangjing cranes his neck so that he can kiss Yanjun’s cheek. “Only if you do the same,” he says.

“Deal.”

They watch each other's lips for a moment, and Yanjun feels like he is being drawn to Zhangjing by a magnet. Their kiss starts slow, tentative, a meeting of lips to lips, like sealing a promise. Then Zhangjing hums and pushes against him, building heat between their bodies, and the kiss deepens. Yanjun parts his lips and gasps when Zhangjing licks inside, his grin against Yanjun’s mouth, his tongue against his teeth. Zhangjing sets the pace, and it’s a slow, sensual one, their breaths growing hotter and heavier when he climbs on top of Yanjun, mindful of his sling, and places a line of open-mouthed kisses down the column of Yanjun’s throat.

“Zhangjing,” Yanjun gasps. “Fuck.”

“That’s a good idea,” Zhangjing says, teases, as he works his way up to Yanjun’s lips again. “C’mon,” he whispers. His fingers find their way to the strings of Yanjun’s hoodie and he pulls as he climbs off of Yanjun and stands, bringing Yanjun up with him. Yanjun trips over himself to follow Zhangjing to his bedroom, and they try to kiss each other still, Zhangjing’s giggle every time Yanjun just misses his lips what shooting stars probably sound like.

They land on the bed. Zhangjing pushes off his own jeans, shimmies out of them and throws them to the floor. His skin is creamy and as smooth as silk when Yanjun runs his hand over his calf and thigh. “You, too,” Zhangjing says, helping Yanjun out of his bottoms. He’s wearing Marvel underwear underneath, and he blushes when Zhangjing stares at the bright red elastic band with a smirk on his face.

“What?” Yanjun asks.

“You’re a nerd,” Zhangjing says, before closing the distance between them and kissing Yanjun silly.

“I want to touch you,” Yanjun says. Zhangjing pushes him up against the headboard, straddles him and grinds their hips together. Yanjun groans, throwing his head back at the hot pleasure that shoots through him. He reaches with his free hand between them bodies and trails his fingers past the band of Zhangjing’s briefs, palming him there, feeling him. Zhangjing’s half-hard, and he moans when Yanjun presses the heel of his hand against him. That moan makes Yanjun’s toes curl, his balls tighten. He wants to hear Zhangjing and all the noises he can make. “Damn it,” he hisses, flinging his left arm up to throw off the sling. His wrist is still in a cast. He’ll be okay. He just wants to touch Zhangjing, to savor him, to give him pleasure. He reaches for the lube in his nightstand and brings it out, dribbling it into his palm before rolling them over in bed, smirking at Zhangjing’s cute little squeak of surprise. Zhangjing’s dark hair fans out over the pillow as his mouth falls open, eyes glittering with want and anticipation as the older man takes a moment to yank off his underwear and toss it off the bed, too. 

“You’re beautiful,” Yanjun gushes. “You’re so, so pretty.” He kisses the man underneath him, diving nose-first to Zhangjing’s throat and inhaling his sweet, slightly earthy scent.

“You’re just saying that so you can sleep with me,” Zhangjing quips.

Yanjun resurfaces and captures Zhangjing’s lips in a deep kiss, rolling his hips against him, and they both moan. “Is it working?” Yanjun gasps.

“Yeah,” Zhangjing gasps back. He takes Yanjun’s hand, the one not wrapped in a cast, the one dripping with lube, and guides it down his body to his dick. “It’s working,” he says.

“Oh, Zhangjing,” Yanjun whispers, gazing at him, at the way Zhangjing’s head tips back to expose his throat when Yanjun wraps his palm around him and strokes, at the way Zhangjing bites down onto his bottom lip when Yanjun presses the pad of his thumb against the slit, smears precum over the head. He works his hand over him slowly, watching Zhangjing for every minute reaction.

“Feels good,” Zhangjing says. His voice comes out in a high-pitched gasp, and Yanjun licks his lips, hovering over him. Zhangjing is still in his pink, oversized sweatshirt, and Yanjun wants it off. His other hand inches up the bottom hem of the sweatshirt, pushing the soft fabric up and hoping Zhangjing will get the message and do the rest of the work himself, because with his hand in a cast he can’t exactly grab the cloth without releasing Zhangjing’s dick, which he doesn’t want to do.

But Zhangjing lets out a little “oh!” and hastily uses both hands to bring the hem of the shirt back down, covering his stomach. “Can I keep it on?” he asks, and a surge of affection washes over Yanjun, makes him slow and still. He kisses Zhangjing gently on the lips.

“Of course.” He starts to work his hand over Zhangjing again, and Zhangjing’s eyelids flutter closed. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready or don’t want to do.”

“Keep doing that,” Zhangjing mumbles, his thighs falling open. “I like that.”

“Aye, aye, captain.” Zhangjing’s dick throbs in his hand, and a bright blush flares across his cheeks. Yanjun stares, amused and aroused. “Did your dick just twitch when I called you captain?”

Zhangjing bites his lips, making a non-committal noise.

“You like when I call you that? Or maybe some other things? Mmm…” Yanjun makes a big show of thinking, slowing the pace of his hand on Zhangjing as the other man keens under his touch, frustrated with the change of pace. “Boss? Sir?” Yanjun smirks and lowers his voice. “...Daddy?”

Zhangjing’s hips stutter and he cries out, his dick red and hard and leaking all over Yanjun’s hand now. “Don’t tease me,” he says, nostrils flaring, before throwing his head back and moaning when Yanjun speeds up his movements. He watches the orgasm build in Zhangjing tight little body, the way pleasure lances through him and makes his back arch, knees coming up so he has more leverage to fuck into Yanjun’s hand. “That’s so good, Yanjun,” Zhangjing groans. “So good, baby.”

He’s close. Yanjun’s mouth goes dry, seeing the pleasure on Zhangjing’s face and how flushed he is all over. Yanjun did that. Zhangjing moans, hands fisting, and then he’s spurting into Yanjun’s hand and over his belly and sweatshirt, sticky and hot, and Yanjun’s wishes he’d put his mouth on him to taste him.

Next time, he thinks.

When Zhangjing’s body relaxes against the bed, Yanjun slows his hand to a stop. He rolls over to grab some tissues from his nightstand and wipes Zhangjing down gently, crumpling up the tissues and tossing them off the bed to be discarded later. Then he moves until he’s pressed against Zhangjing’s side, slightly curled around him with his larger frame. Zhangjing is hot to the touch, the expression on his face well and truly sated, and another tingle runs through Yanjun’s veins at the knowledge that he’d put that expression there.

Zhangjing shifts to face him. “Now, you,” he says, reaching between them, his grin like a kitten’s napping in the sun.

.


	10. zhengting

It’s a little past midnight and he’s the only one in the studio. Yibo left hours ago, leaving Zhengting with the keys. “Just don’t steal anything, and be sure to lock up,” Yibo said with a significant look on his face, like this wasn’t the millionth time Zhengting had asked him to let him practice after hours and he’d let him. Frankly, Zhengting is surprised Yibo hasn’t already made him a copy of the keys with how often he asks to use the studio.

He watches his own form in the mirror, slowing down the choreography as he counts the beats out for himself. There’s just this one part that doesn’t look quite right, and it’s really bothering him. He wishes he could call Wenjun but Wenjun just came back from Madrid and is currently catching up on sleep in Zhengting’s apartment. “You party so much,” Zhengting whined to him when he’d arrived at Zhengting’s doorstep with bags under his eyes and a huge, empty bottle of Nongfu vitamin water in his hand.

“Baby, it’s part of the job. Besides, it’s not like I’m having fun without you,” Wenjun said, before kissing him on the cheek and zeroing in on Zhengting’s bed.  

And Zhengting believes him. Wenjun almost always somehow ends up dialing Zhengting when he’s a little bit tipsy and complaining about the loud music or about the boring conversation at his table. He tries to keep Zhengting on the phone as he calls a cab to go back to his hotel or wherever his agency has set him up, as though he wants to prove to Zhengting he’s not going home with anyone behind his back. Zhengting has told Wenjun he trusts him and he doesn't need to do that, but the behavior continues, and anyway, Zhengting kind of finds it endearing to hear Wenjun babbling drunkenly about random topics.

He spins on his heel a little too quickly, losing balance and catching himself before he can topple over. Damn. He’d zoned out. Maybe he should get going, catch up on sleep himself, snuggle with Wenjun under the covers.

He goes over to the sound system in the corner and presses ‘play’, thinking to himself that he’ll just run through the routine a couple more times before calling it a night. The meeting with the scout is in two days and his nerves are starting to buzz under his skin.

Just as he’s about to start, his phone vibrates on the floor near the mirror, and Zhengting pauses, going over to pick it up.

It’s Xukun!

Smiling a bit to himself, he answers. “Hey, it’s late.”

“I just got done at the studio,” Xukun responds. “What are you doing, answering? It’s late for you, too!”

“What are you doing, calling?” Zhengting retorts. He can almost see Xukun’s answering pout at Zhengting pointing out his hypocrisy, and bites back a giggle. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” Xukun says. “Just wanted to talk. Just wanted to chat. Wang Ziyi is such a bag of dicks.”

“Ah, this again?”

Yesterday Xukun called him, in tears, calling Ziyi every horrible name he could think of, before calming down enough to tell Zhengting what had actually happened. Zhengting wasn’t necessarily surprised Xukun and Ziyi's night after visiting Yanjun in the hospital had ended with a blowjob in the bathroom. It’s how it is with Xukun and Ziyi. There is so much unbridled emotion between them that sometimes Zhengting wonders how they both don’t simply implode every time they are in the same room together. Personally, Zhengting thinks they should go to couples counseling together. For everyone’s sakes.

“I just couldn’t stop thinking it as I was recording, and you know how something just repeats over and over in your head until you have to blurt it out? I needed to say it to someone.”

“You chose me?” Zhengting asks, laying himself out on the floor and groaning at the cooling sensation of his body against the hardwood. “I’m honored.”

“Yeah,” Xukun says. “You’re, like, my best friend.”

“Aww.”

“Shut up.”

Zhengting teases, “I’m your best friend and you didn't call me for weeks. Don’t tell me to shut up.”

“Anyway, what are you up to?” Xukun’s voice drops to a quieter volume, his tone more serious. Zhengting wonders if he’s still in his recording studio, or if he’s home.

“I’m rehearsing my dance.”

“But it’s so late,” Xukun says again. “You should go to sleep. Isn’t Wenjun back?”

“Wenjun is back and dead to the world in my apartment. I kind of like him like that. Maybe I’ll make it permanent.”

“You’re so morbid and weird.”

Zhengting sits up, pressing his back against the mirror now, grinning. “I guess love does weird things to you,” he says softly.

Xukun breathes on the other end, and Zhengting wonders what’s running through his mind. Is he thinking of Ziyi? Finally, he says, “Yeah, I guess it does.”

Sensing a shift in mood, Zhengting tries to brighten it, sitting up straighter even though Xukun can’t see the action. “Hey,” he says, “actually, I’m having trouble with this one part. Can we switch to video chat so you can give me some feedback? If you have time, I mean.”

“What? Oh. Yeah, sure.”

They switch to video chat, and sure enough, Zhengting can see that Xukun is still in his recording studio, if the wood-paneled walls are anything to go by. He angles the phone against the mirror so that the camera can capture him in its field, and gives Xukun a thumbs up. The other boy is in a hoodie and cap, and his face looms huge on Zhengting’s screen as he leans forward to watch. It reminds Zhengting a little bit of his mom whenever she's trying to video chat him, not understanding where the camera is.

Zhengting laughs. “You can see me?”

“Yeah, I can see you,” Xukun says. Zhengting gives him a thumbs up. He runs over to the sound system to his ‘play’, and then he begins.

.

Zhengting feels like a noodle. All of his limbs are wrung out and he can barely make it up the stairs without collapsing against the wall, but he manages to let himself into his apartment and shuffle out of his shoes and into his bathroom, where he turns on the shower and strips, forgetting to close the door.

Xukun gave him some pretty good advice that he’d worked into his routine, and he is feeling more confident about his dance and what he has to offer the scout, now.

The water is scalding when he reaches a hand in to test the temperature, and Zhengting flinches back, hissing. He adjusts the water temperature just a little until it’s no longer peel-your-skin burning but could-probably-cook-you burning, which is just how he likes it, and steps in. Standing under the shower sheds the remaining nervous energy clinging to his skin. He imagines it all going down the drain with the soapy water, and finally kind of understands what Yanjun is always going on about when he defends his multi-hour-long showers.

However, it’s late, and Zhengting really wants to go to bed.

He rinses off the remaining soap and shuts off the water, sliding open the shower curtain and gasping when Wenjun is standing at the door with his arms crossed loosely over his chest, glasses balanced on the bridge of his sharp nose, hair a wild mess.

“Wenjun,” Zhengting scolds. “I am naked.”

Wenjun looks him up and down, eyes half-lidded, and smirks. “I can see that.”

“Give me a towel.”

Wenjun passes him the fluffy towel that is hanging over the rack by the door. “Did you eat anything?” he asks.

“It’s too late to eat,” Zhengting says, drying himself off. “I’ll just eat in the morning.”

Wenjun frowns. “If you’re hungry, I made fried rice earlier with your leftovers in the fridge.” As soon as Wenjun says it, Zhengting’s stomach gives a huge growl in reply, and Wenjun laughs at the mortified blush spreading across Zhengting’s cheeks. “I’ll go heat it up,” he offers, turning away from his boyfriend and disappearing around the corner into the kitchen as Zhengting takes the towel to his hair.

Zhengting scowls at his stomach and pokes at it. “Traitor,” he whispers.

.

Later, belly slightly fuller and hair mostly dry, Zhengting curls up with Wenjun in bed, under the covers, and feels his eyelids flutter closed at the feeling of Wenjun’s long fingers running through his hair and massaging his scalp.

“Love you,” he murmurs against his boyfriend’s chest.

“Love you, too,” Wenjun whispers back. He can hear his heart beating, can feel the way Wenjun’s body molds to his. He is home, here in the circle of Wenjun's arms. Within three breaths, they’re both asleep.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for sticking with this fic <3 almost nearing the end!


	11. ziyi

It’s two o’clock in the afternoon when Ziyi’s phone buzzes aggressively on the coffee table next to the couch, startling him from his coma of a nap. He tries to kick the throw blanket off his legs, tangling his feet in the fabric in the process, and grunts when he finally manages to be free of it. He slaps his hand against his phone, grabbing it and bringing it to his ear.

“What?” he says, jerking when it continues to buzz against his ear. Scowling, he looks at the screen and sees the image of Yanjun’s handsome face smirking into the camera as he tries to videochat him. Ziyi swipes his finger across the screen, accepting the call. His own face pops up as a small image in the corner of his screen, exposing a horrible double chin at this angle. He adjusts himself higher onto the arm of the couch to show a better face. “What?” he repeats, rubbing his eyes with his free hand.

“Jeez,” Yanjun says, “You look horrible.”

“You really don’t hold back, do you?” Ziyi mumbles.

“I thought maybe I’d find you with puffy eyes and a red nose after crying your heart out, but you just. Look like shit. When was the last time you washed your hair?” Yanjun's eyes are wide, and the background behind him is white. He looks like he’s lying down.

As surreptitiously as he can, Ziyi tries to sniff his own hair. He knows it’s been a few days since he's washed it, but he’s been keeping it up in a short ponytail, so it’s been out of his way. “Are you calling me from your bed?”

“So what if I am? I was worried. You haven’t messaged since, uh, the day after the hospital. It’s been, like, a whole week.”

“Yeah,” Ziyi says, huffing. “I’m sorry about that.”

“You got something on your mind?”

The way he says it, the way he’s peering into the camera as though he can see through it and to Ziyi and into his soul, makes Ziyi think Yanjun knows something. Something about what happened after the hospital. The thing that’s been keeping him up at night for days, the reason for the grey circles under his eyes and the ratty mess of hair on top of his head. He’s been trying to write in an effort to process what happened -- that’s usually his go-to outlet, after all -- but even that has been a failure. Every time Ziyi sits at his piano and tries to make a couple of chords sound good together his brain screams at him that he messed up. Big time. And then the gnawing feeling in his stomach starts, and then he thinks about Xukun.

Xukun’s face when Ziyi told him he needed to think, after that gentle, sweet kiss shared in the dingy bathroom of that bar. He hadn’t looked sad, or angry. He’d just looked empty, like he’d been all used up. Like Ziyi had reached inside of him and pulled out everything that made him work.

That was Ziyi’s fault.

Ziyi is starting to think that it’s always been his fault -- the back and forth, the push and pull of their relationship.

Yanjun’s voice breaks through his thoughts. “Woah, guess you do have stuff on your mind?”

Ziyi sighs, and turns to sit up properly against the back cushions of the couch. He’s holed himself up in his apartment, unable to bring himself to face the world with Xukun’s blank, emotionless stare in his mind, subsisting on delivery food for days, and it’s starting to feel like he’s rolling in his own filth. “Bro, can you just -- can you distract me for a bit?”

And Yanjun rambles. He talks about everything he’s been up to since getting released from the hospital, not sparing Ziyi any details. Ziyi lets the words roll over him and transport him somewhere outside of his own head, just for a little while, and then Yanjun says, “So yeah since I’m not allowed to drink anymore, I drink a lot of tea, and I’m just like, _really_ horny all the time. Or bored. Or both? Anyway Zhangjing comes over a lot and we have _so_ much sex. It’s basically like living in a sex den. And the _noises_ he makes, Ziyi. Wow. He lets me--”

“Okay,” Ziyi says loudly, interrupting Yanjun’s flow. “Please stop talking, now.”

Yanjun pauses, and then he grins, and the quiet washes over them both.

After a moment, Yanjun asks softly, “So things didn’t really work out with Xukun, huh?”

Ziyi feels his teeth clamp together reflexively. “How did you know?”

“Zhengting told me,” Yanjun says easily. “Xukun was really upset. But he said he didn’t want to lose it in front of you.”

“I wish he had,” Ziyi says.

“What do you mean?”

“It just feels like the only way we can communicate anymore is if one of us is upset.”

“That...doesn’t seem healthy,” Yanjun says slowly.

Ziyi bites into his bottom lip and runs his fingers through his hair. “I don’t,” he tries. He bites into his bottom his lip harder when his chest swells and with it, a tide starts to rise behind his eyes. When the tide feels more manageable and he can push it back down, he says, “I don’t know how to fix it.”

“You could talk about it,” Yanjun says.

“I don’t know _how_ ,” Ziyi says louder, frustrated.

“It’s not easy,” Yanjun acknowledges, “and it takes time, and practice. I practiced with Zhangjing. Here, look, I’ll go first.” He pauses, eyes looking up into nothing as he thinks, before focusing on Ziyi again. Then he says slowly but steadily, “I have a drinking problem. I’m sorry I worried you all and got myself hurt. I guess I didn’t think it mattered. If I got hurt. I wasn’t happy. And I tried to cover it up.”

“Of course it mattered,” Ziyi says. “It matters if you get hurt. You matter.” Ziyi feels his cheeks flush and heat. He adds, “To us. To me.”

Yanjun’s smile stretches across his face beautifully. He says, “I know. I’m starting to get it. So thanks for -- always looking out for me. And for being patient.” He pauses again, and Ziyi wonders if he’s trying to think of something else to share, but all he says is, “Okay, your turn.”

Ziyi is caught off guard. He stares at Yanjun. “My-turn-what?”

“Talk,” Yanjun says. “Ugh, it’s way easier with Zhangjing. Um. Tell me about Xukun.”

“What about him? You know him, too.” It seems a futile exercise.

Yanjun wrinkles his nose. “No, tell me about _your_ Xukun. Tell me stuff you don’t think I’d know.”

The stuff Ziyi thinks Yanjun doesn’t know. The stuff that Xukun only lets Ziyi see, and know, and touch, and feel. He closes his eyes, and he describes the first memory of Xukun that comes to mind.

“Xukun used to get mad at me when I would give away half of my lunch to that kid in middle school who never brought lunch with him. He wouldn’t say anything in the moment, of course, but after school, after you and Zhengting had already gotten home, we’d go another couple blocks, and he’d scold me. ‘Why are you giving away your food? You don’t have to eat, too?’ and then sometimes we’d get snacks at the convenience store down the street, and we’d eat, and we’d only go home when it was dark out and our parents would be so mad…”

He hears Yanjun chuckling, and continues. “Did you know he has notebooks full of poetry, organized by season and year? He doodles in the margins. Sometimes the doodles make sense, and sometimes they don’t. One day when he’s really famous, he thinks he might publish them. He said he’d call it the _Books of Nonsense_.”

Yanjun laughs. “He would, wouldn’t he?”

Ziyi smiles to himself and opens his eyes. “He likes to watch movies in the dark because he cries watching every single one, regardless of genre or quality, and he doesn't want people to see. But I always see. He’s a cuddler. He doesn’t like his eggs sunny side up because he imagines he can still see the little chickens inside the yolks, even though I tell him every time that that can’t be possible. He insists he doesn’t snore, but he does. He has a map of tiny freckles under his left ribs that look like an arrow pointing to his heart. He works so hard, and he’s so diligent and careful. He deserves all the success he’s going to find, soon.”

“Does he know you think that?”

“No,” Ziyi says flatly. “Because I’m lousy at communicating.”

“You’re not so bad,” Yanjun says. “I mean, we’re both pretty shitty at it, but we can only get better, right?”

“You know, when we were all in high school and we formed our first band, Xukun and I would skip practice sometimes to go watch a movie and makeout in the back seats.”

Yanjun says in a somewhat disappointed tone, “That’s no secret.”

Ziyi nods, remembering how it felt to sneak away with Xukun when they were only teenagers, to take his hand in the darkness of the movie theater. To shift the armrest between up and out of the way. The thrill that came with the danger of being caught felt like nothing compared to the thought that Xukun dared -- had _chosen_ \-- that if they were ever to be caught, it would be with Ziyi.

Ziyi says, “But it was a secret to us. It was our secret. I guess we never moved past that in our relationship. We were always hiding. Sneaking around. Maybe we were even hiding from each other.”

“Maybe,” Yanjun says. “But you should tell Xukun that, too. Because maybe that’s not what he’s thinking. You know, I talked to Xukun, after the hospital. Before that, I thought he hated us, or like, that I wasn’t _allowed_ to talk to him, or something ridiculous like that. I had all these thoughts in my own head that I wasn’t letting out, and it was really messing me up. And when I talked to him...I realized we were all just being idiots.”

Ziyi scoffs. “Idiots, huh? That’s your big conclusion?”

Yanjun chuckles again. He says with a small grin, “Yeah, dude. We all love each other. Or we like each other, at least. When things get tough, we just have to remember that.”

Ziyi bites the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning at Yanjun's sweet words. “Wow, have you always been like this? Is this what you’re like sober and dry?”

“Don’t be a dick,” Yanjun laughs. “Zhangjing’s been drilling it into my head. That last bit. He’s -- honestly amazing.”

“I can see that.” Ziyi watches the way Yanjun's eyes light up just thinking about Zhangjing, and he wonders if Xukun's eyes have ever glowed like that when he talks about Ziyi.

Then, as if the other boy can read his mind, Yanjun says quietly, “You should hear yourself when you talk about Xukun, Ziyi. You owe it to yourself to talk to him. To try.”

Ziyi takes a long shower after his call with Yanjun. The heat and steam help to clear his head, and when he steps out, he knows what he needs to do next.

.


	12. xukun

The song should be ready. His producer thinks it’s ready, his manager thinks it’s ready, his label thinks it’s ready. The concept is set, and they’re supposed to start shooting scenes for the music video in just two days. And from there, the timeline for teasers, promotions, and release is an aggressive few weeks.

The song should be ready, but Xukun plays it over in the recording booth, the noise-cancelling cups of his huge headphones pressed against his ears, and he can’t help but feel something is missing. He sits in the producer’s seat, looking in through the wall of glass to the space where he’d usually be standing in front of the mic. It’s a small, tight room that might make another man feel claustrophobic, where everyone can see in, like you’re an exhibit at a zoo, but Xukun has gotten used to the prickling sensation of being watched and judged and critiqued.

He remembers the first time he’d messed up performing with the band, tongue tripping over lyrics, and the panic that must have flared out of his eyes as he turned to look at Ziyi, who was right next to him on guitar, who took over seamlessly and growled the rest of the verse into the mic, and the audience had cheered, hadn’t known any better. But Xukun knew, and for days after, he’d practiced that verse over and over and over again until he could recite it backwards in his sleep.

His skin has grown thicker since then. It’s not that he doesn’t mess up anymore; he does, but mistakes like that no longer feel like the end of the world. They feel like something he can roll with and grow from.

So why does his song bother him like this -- un-finished, un-perfect -- and feel like a mistake he’s not ready to release into the world?

His phone lights up from its spot on the soundboard, and Xukun glances at it, seeing a notification from Zhengting.

 _Hey,_  Zhengting has texted, _aren’t you going to wish me luck for tomorrow?_

Xukun grins and picks up his phone, typing a quick response. _Of course. Good luck. You’ll kill it!_ Followed by a few choice emojis expressing his certainty that Zhengting will nail the audition and meeting with the company representative.

 _Thanks bro,_  Zhengting responds. Xukun makes a mental note to tease Zhengting later for picking up mannerisms from Ziyi, but then drops the thought just as quickly, groaning in frustration at him and lolling his head back over the seat of the cushioned chair.

His phone vibrates in his hand. Xukun answers, still groaning, “I already wished you luck. What more could you want?”

“Uh,” says someone who is definitely not Zhengting. “Hey, Kunkun.”

Xukun’s heart rolls out of his chest and plops onto the floor. He swallows, sitting up straighter even though there’s no one around to see him. “Hey. Ziyi.”

“Is this a bad time?”

He should be perfecting his song. He should be practicing the choreography for it. He should be reviewing his schedule with his manager to make sure he’s not missing anything. He should be practicing his responses to the list of questions that has been approved for all the interviews he has lined up over the next few days. But all Xukun says is, “Not really.”

“Great,” Ziyi says slowly, and the pause is long enough for Xukun to pick his heart back up from where it's landed at his feet. It beats now in his chest, loud and overpowering. “Because I’m outside.”

“You’re outside,” Xukun repeats, dumbfounded. “Of my _studio_? How did you find out where the studio is? You’re outside?”

Another pause, and then: “Shit.”

Xukun can feel the laughter bubbling up inside of him, but he stifles it in order to hear Ziyi continue in a low, defeated tone. “I’m outside of your apartment. Shit. I have fried chicken. I was gonna -- I was gonna surprise you.”

“You have fried chicken? You were going to surprise me? Did you think you were in a drama? Are you Yanjun?” Xukun laughs now, picturing Ziyi standing there outside of his apartment holding a box of fried chicken and maybe some flowers and looking confused and lost when Xukun doesn’t come to answer the ringing of his doorbell. “How long have you been out there?”

“Not long,” Ziyi admits. Xukun smiles when he hears his voice is lighter, brighter. “But I feel like an idiot, now.”

“Good,” Xukun says. He swivels in the seat, leaning back with his phone against his ear.

“I _have_ been an idiot, Kunkun,” Ziyi says next. “Can you please come to your apartment? Or tell me where the studio is? I don’t want to do this over the phone.”

“Do what over the phone?”

“You know what,” Ziyi mumbles.

Xukun frowns, sinking lower into the seat. “I’m busy,” he says quietly. “You can’t just expect me to drop everything and run to you. I can’t do that. I won’t do that.”

“I--” Ziyi sighs, and Xukun pictures him running his fingers through his hair in frustration. “Okay, yeah. You’re right. I’m sorry.” He takes another breath that Xukun can hear over the phone. “When can I see you, then? Can I see you?”

Xukun clucks his tongue, thinking. “Tonight. I’ll be home around 8, I think. Come back with fried chicken, okay? But not the same fried chicken. A new box.”

He hears Ziyi hum, the soft hum he makes right before he chuckles, and sure enough, his low, quiet laughter comes next. “Is that all you’ll be wanting, Prince Kun?”

Xukun says, “Bring a couple of beers, too, I guess.”

“Alright. I’ll see you at 8.”

“See you.” He hangs up first and folds his hands over his stomach, looking up at the ceiling of the studio. There are cracks in the plaster, and it’s the first time he’s noticed them. He wonders how long the cracks have been there, and how long it would take to get them fixed.

.

After a day at his studio and getting nowhere, Xukun goes home to his apartment and takes a well-deserved shower. His hair is still dripping water onto his shoulders, soaking into the t-shirt he threw on, when the buzzer to his apartment sounds.

He checks the time on the clock in his microwave as he passes his kitchenette to the front door. 8:01 PM. Smirking, Xukun sees Ziyi in the little screen of his apartment buzzer, cap pulled low over his eyes. He presses the TALK button.

“I didn’t order any delivery,” he says.

“Ha ha,” Ziyi laughs without any humor. “Please let me in.”

“You’re very punctual,” Xukun comments as he presses the button that will let Ziyi into the apartment building's lobby, and then he waits by the door. Ziyi has to take the elevator up to the 6th floor, turn right as he exits, and walk a good twenty paces before he reaches Xukun’s apartment door. Xukun counts to twenty in his head. Ziyi knocks, and Xukun takes a breath.

“Kunkun,” Ziyi says, his voice slightly muffled behind the door. “Kunkun?”

Xukun takes another breath, his hand frozen on the doorknob. “Y-yeah?”

“Are you going to let me in?”

“I’m thinking about it,” Xukun says.

“Well,” Ziyi says. “Don’t take too long. The chicken will get cold.”

Xukun counts to five in his head. And then he opens the door. He isn’t sure what he’d been expecting: maybe Ziyi with the light shining down on him like he’d been beamed to his welcome mat from outer space, skin glistening and perfect, hair like dark, black silk. But what he gets is Ziyi in tapered black sweats and a t-shirt, hair hidden away under his cap, holding a box of greasy fried chicken in one hand and a six-pack of canned beers in the other, his mouth falling open in surprise, and still Xukun’s heart flutters embarrassingly in his chest like it’s a little bird that wants to flutter away and settle on Ziyi’s shoulder.

Then Ziyi closes his mouth and smiles softly at him, and he asks, “Kunkun, can I come in?”

.

They spend their first beer in Xukun’s living room, catching up on the lives of those around them. They talk about Zhengting, and Wenjun, and Yanjun, and what they know of Zhangjing, and they talk about music, and they talk about how good the chicken is. And when they run out of things to talk about, Xukun’s hair is dry and his first can of beer is empty, and he wants to lick the grease off of Ziyi’s fingers in the stuffy quiet that follows.

But he knows he can’t. Shouldn’t. Even though he wants to.

He vaguely recalls that this is something Ziyi wanted to do, to meet up, to talk. To do whatever it was he couldn’t -- didn’t want to do -- over the phone. He squirms in his seat, meeting Ziyi’s eyes as he reaches for another beer in the plastic bag on the floor, bringing out the cold drink and snapping the tab open. It hisses and fizzes, and Xukun brings the drink up quickly to his mouth to lap at the foam bubbling over the top.

He watches Ziyi watching him. Watches Ziyi lick his own lips and reach for a second beer himself. Ziyi is much more careful when opening his can. He taps the lid with his fingernails and pops the tab open just a little bit, to let the air escape, before opening it completely. No spilling involved. Careful and controlled, just like he always is.

The only time Xukun thinks he’s seen Ziyi not careful and controlled is when Xukun is on his knees for him. But even then, Xukun thinks, even then there’s restraint.

“You’re quiet,” Ziyi says, sipping once. He puts the beer down onto a coaster on the coffee table, and he hardly makes a sound. “What’s on your mind?”

Xukun sighs, bristling and feeling caught off-guard and betrayed at the way his own thoughts wandered. “What do you want, Ziyi? You’re the one who wanted to see me so desperately.”

“You’re right. I did want to see you.”

“Well, take a good look,” Xukun snaps. Ziyi does, eyes roaming over Xukun’s body, and all the bitterness and frustration over the past week suddenly bubbles up into the back of Xukun’s throat like bile. “Something you like?” he manages to spit.

“Something I like very much,” Ziyi says quietly.

“I could do a little striptease if you’d like,” Xukun continues, uncertain where the words falling out of his mouth are coming from, but unable to stop them. “Get down on my knees. You like me best like that, don’t you?”

Ziyi’s eyelids flutter closed, and a breath escapes from between his lips. He says, “Let’s not.”

“What?”

“I didn’t come here for -- I’m not here for that.”

Xukun scoffs and puts his beer down too hard, the liquid splashing up and over his hand. “Then what are you here for?”

“To apologize,” Ziyi says, in a voice that cuts. Xukun gasps. Then, in a softer voice, eyes on the table, Ziyi repeats, “To apologize." He inhales. Exhales. "I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Kunkun. I messed up bad. At first I wanted to apologize for what happened after the hospital, but I thought that wouldn’t be enough. Because it’s more than that. I’m sorry for how I treated you, and how I treated us. I’m sorry I said you were selfish for pursuing your dreams. I’m sorry I wouldn’t ever hold your hand in public. I’m sorry I didn’t run after you that day, and all the other days. Okay? I’m sorry I hurt you.”

Xukun is aware that his face is wet and his ears are ringing. It hurts to breathe. All he can see is Ziyi’s sharp profile, his eyes in shadow. “Ziyi, look at me,” Xukun whispers.

Ziyi looks up, and their eyes meet. Xukun watches the stone wall of Ziyi’s face and expression start to crumble, like the way desert sands shape and reshape with the wind. His eyes begin to glisten as his lower lip starts to tremble.

“Do you mean it?” Xukun asks.

“Of course I mean it,” Ziyi gasps, the first of his tears spilling over, his eyes red.

“Why now?”

Ziyi’s lips curl into a self-deprecating grin. He shakes his head. “Because Yanjun called me out on my bullshit,” he says. “Because I’ve been miserable without you. Because I’m selfish. You’re about to be so successful and famous, and I -- I don’t want you to forget about me or leave me behind.”

“You,” Xukun says, standing up and closing the distance between them, straddling his thighs over Ziyi’s lap and cupping Ziyi’s wet face into his hands. “You are what all my songs are about. I couldn’t ever forget you.”

Ziyi sniffs wetly as he chuckles, hands settling onto Xukun’s hips. “I want to be better,” he says, “so that _we_ can be better.”

“Are you saying you want to work on our relationship?”

“Yeah,” Ziyi says.

Xukun groans, rolling his hips against Ziyi and pressing their fronts together. “I’ve never heard anything so sexy in my life.”

“Wait,” Ziyi gasps, fingers digging into Xukun’s hips, which is doing all sorts of things to Xukun’s arousal and not at all dampening it. “Yanjun said we shouldn’t have sex until we figure this out.”

“What does Yanjun know?” Xukun whines, darting forward to kiss Ziyi’s jawline. “Can we not talk about Yanjun right now?”

“Kunkun, I’m being serious.” He pulls back, and Xukun lets him. Xukun crosses his arms in front of his chest and pouts as Ziyi brushes Xukun’s hair back with gentle fingers. “How -- how are you feeling?” Ziyi’s lips twist into a strange sort of grimace, like the question pains him to ask, but Xukun gives him points for trying. For caring.

“Horny,” Xukun says immediately, then slumps when Ziyi’s expression shifts into something more stern. “Fine. I’m -- glad you came over. And said those things. I was afraid that if you didn’t, we’d never talk again.” His breath suddenly hitches, and another wave of tears spills over onto his cheeks. He can taste the salt in his own words. “You’ve always been so hard to read. So careful. I never wanted to push because I was afraid you’d disappear. You can’t disappear, Ziyi. Got it?”

“I won’t,” Ziyi promises, and he takes Xukun’s face into his hands and kisses him, like he’s trying to push his own soul onto Xukun’s tongue. Xukun can taste the salt of Ziyi’s tears, too, and it reminds him of the ocean, of the fathomless deep, the churning waters, but also of the horizon in the distance, and he imagines they are there, together, bodies forming out of the ocean spray and mist and taking their first, careful steps onto shore.

.

"Hey, I want you to listen to something," Xukun says. It's early in the morning, the sun hidden behind clouds, and they are still in Xukun's bed. His body is pleasantly sore, the exhaustion in his bones well-deserved. Ziyi dozes on his stomach beside him, his bare shoulders soft and kissable. So Xukun kisses him there, at the points of his shoulderblades. Ziyi wriggles, grunting, rolling onto his side and capturing Xukun in his arms.

"...time is it?" he asks.

"Seven," Xukun responds cheerfully. "I'm wide awake. And I want you to listen to something."

"I'm not conscious enough," Ziyi retorts. 

"That's okay," Xukun insists. "You can just feel it. I just want you to feel it."

And he takes his phone and plays the studio version of his new song. The opening notes and chords seem to echo around them, and then Xukun's voice comes in. Ziyi holds him closer and kisses his forehead, his hand cupping the back of Xukun's head and his fingers scratching lightly, massaging his scalp. "Do you feel it?" Xukun asks, lips against Ziyi's neck. 

"Yeah," Ziyi whispers back. "It's good. It's you. It's really you. I love it."

Xukun melts against him. He can feel Ziyi all around him, his careful tenderness, his warmth. The song ends, and they begin again.

.


	13. yanjun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is more like an epilogue. thanks everyone for reading and sticking this out <3

Steam billows out into the bedroom when Yanjun opens the door, water dripping from his hair onto the towel around his shoulders and trailing down his skin to collect at the towel around his waist. The chill of the air conditioned hotel room makes his skin pebble after being encased in warmth and humidity from his shower for so long. He pads over to the bed and plops down onto it, wet skin and all.

“Hey!” Zhangjing bounces on the bed, lying prone on his stomach in a simple t-shirt and boxer shorts, his phone in his hands. “You’re all wet. Get off, Yanjun.”

“Don’t feel like it,” Yanjun teases, nuzzling into his boyfriend’s side. He earns an elbow to the ribs and Zhangjing’s palm against his face, pushing him away. Yanjun laughs, the sound muffled against Zhangjing’s hand, and manages to roll them over until Zhangjing is on his back and Yanjun is straddling his hips, hands propping him up on either side of Zhangjing’s head. The towel hangs loosely around his shoulders, and he can feel the one around his hips slipping. He shakes his head like a dog.

Zhangjing shrieks, putting up his hands in front of his face to shield himself from the attack of water droplets, before pushing at Yanjun’s shoulders. They both sit up, huffing, Yanjun beaming and Zhangjing scowling.

“Aw,” Yanjun says, booping Zhangjing’s nose with a finger. “Don’t pout.”

“You attacked me,” Zhangjing proclaims. “I’m angry with you.”

“Are you really?”

“Hmph,” Zhangjing says, but his pout slips into something softer, and then it shifts into a mischievous grin. The next thing Yanjun knows, he’s on his back and Zhangjing is on top of him, his hands locked against Yanjun’s wrists and his knees on either side of Yanjun’s narrow waist. “How’d you like a taste of your own medicine?”

Yanjun smirks, and rolls his hips. “I love it.”

“Ugh,” Zhangjing says, squeezing Yanjun's wrists. “No, I’m worn out. I was just updating my Instagram with all the pictures we took today.” He rolls off of Yanjun, evidently done with playing. Yanjun tries not to be too put out, because truthfully it’s hard for him not to be absolutely whipped by everything Zhangjing does. Ziyi and Zhengting and Xukun all tease him for it, claiming that Zhangjing might as well lead Yanjun around on a leash. (“He does sometimes,” Yanjun had deadpanned, the first time Ziyi made the joke. Zhengting choked on his bubble tea.)

Zhangjing continues, “Do you want to see?”

“Of course,” Yanjun says.

“Go dry your hair and come back and let’s snuggle,” Zhangjing demands cutely.

Yanjun does as he’s told, dressing in a tank and gym shorts when he’s dry. When he comes back to bed, Zhangjing has narrowed down the dozens of pictures they’d taken as they toured around Tokyo all day to the ten that he’s thinking about sharing on his social media accounts.

They lay against the fluffy pillows piled up at the headboard, Zhangjing’s head coming to rest of Yanjun’s chest and Yanjun’s arm curling around the smaller man’s shoulders. With a sigh, they come together, molded against each other. Zhangjing shows him the photos on his phone.

“This was a great shot,” he says, tilting the screen for Yanjun to see.

It’s a photo of them standing under the bright red gates of the Senbon Torii at the Nezu Shrine. He remembers walking through the vermilion arches and the pervasive feeling he had that each gate he passed brought him back in time another decade. What a strange, peaceful, and nostalgic place. Xukun had taken the picture from behind, catching Yanjun and Zhangjing with their hands in each other’s, looking back at the camera because he’d called out to them. “It looks like we’re running away to get married,” Zhangjing says with a giggle.

“Are you proposing?” Yanjun responds slyly.

Zhangjing grins up at him, and Yanjun’s breath catches. They kiss, their lips against each other as light as air, but it feels as though Zhangjing has reached deep inside of Yanjun and put his fist around his heart. Maybe it should scare him, the power Zhangjing has over him. He could squeeze too hard and Yanjun would shatter. But instead he feels safe, like maybe his heart has always belonged in the palm of the man next to him now.

“I love you,” Yanjun whispers against Zhangjing’s cheek.

“I love you, too,” Zhangjing returns. “Don’t forget we have to wake up early tomorrow for the fish market.”

Yanjun groans and throws his head back against the pillows.

“I want to try the sashimi!” Zhangjing insists. “If you don’t wake up in time, I’ll drag everyone else with me anyway.”

“I’ll wake up in time,” Yanjun promises. “You should worry about Zhengting and Wenjun. You know Wenjun’s shoot ends really late tonight.”

“I know. It’s okay if they end up not joining. I know Zhengting probably doesn’t want to smell like fish for his performance tomorrow.”

“Ziyi and I have to perform, too!” Yanjun protests. He and Ziyi are on a small, five-city tour around Taiwan, Japan, and Korea, and their concert in Tokyo happened to coincide with a weekend that Zhengting is performing with his company, and Xukun is on a short break after the success of his single and promotions and before he has to get back into the recording studio. Xukun and Zhangjing decided it was the perfect opportunity for them all to get together, and Zhangjing proceeded to identify about twenty restaurants and cafes he and Yanjun needed to visit in the 4 days they were spending in the bustling metropolis.

“Yeah, but your concert is not tomorrow. Plus, you’re my boyfriend,” Zhangjing explains simply.

The thing is, it works. It stills any other protests that had been ready to spill from Yanjun’s tongue. “Yeah, I’m your boyfriend,” he repeats, a bit dumbstruck, lovestruck. “I love you.”

Zhangjing smiles softly. “You said that already.”

“It bears repeating.”

“ _It bears repeating_ ,” Zhangjing mocks, but he cranes his neck to kiss Yanjun again anyway.

.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading~ comments and kudos are always appreciated!
> 
> I’m on twitter @andnowforyaya and would love to be friends <3


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